Arsonist's Lullabye
by Emilia Atwood
Summary: When sparks fly between two people, the flames that come forth are set to consume the ones who started it. Before Christine Daaé, Erik found a kindred soul in the most unexpected of people ― an enigmatic wordsmith whose own fire burned as brightly as his own, a girl who not only uncovered the man behind the Phantom's elusive visage but also the tragedy behind the mask. [SLOW BURN]
1. Impressions

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters and settings from the books by Gaston Leroux and Susan Kay, the musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber, and the movie by Joel Schumacher. I do not claim any ownership over the characters and settings created and owned by them. The same goes for any lyrics and snippets of literature that I will be using ― they all belong to their respective writers. I only own the plot and the original characters of my own invention.

* * *

( _one_ )

 **IMPRESSIONS**

* * *

 _1875_

* * *

A sweetness invaded her sense of taste as Jovan quietly bit into the pastry she held in her hand. Chocolate and cream cheese melted into one sweet sensation as she closed her eyes for a second, savoring the tasty treat. Heavens, she wondered ― what if her life had actually been as sweet as the pastry in her hand? Then perhaps she wouldn't be stuck at the Opéra Populaire, laboring away as one of the stagehands.

Too soon was she pulled away from her reverie and back to reality when Monsieur Reyer's voice rang throughout the theater, announcing that only five minutes remained of the performers and the crew's break. Jovan merely blinked before resuming eating her little snack, gazing below at the sight of the ballet corps and chorus members huddled into groups on the stage. From her perch on the catwalk, as her legs dangled off the edge, she was provided with a view that hid nothing from her eyes. She spotted several ballet rats stretching out their limbs while a few others chose to simply sit or lie down. One chorus girl was trying to hit some notes while little Marguerite, their ballet headmistress' daughter, busied herself by fixing her hair.

The sight easily became a relaxing one but, unfortunately, the moment of peace was cut short as Madame Giry arrived into the scene. By her side, she held the hand of a doe-eyed girl Jovan had never seen before. Whispers instantly rose from the crowd of ballet rats that Madame Giry and the girl presently stood in front of.

Jovan watched as Madame Giry went on to introduce the newcomer. The girl whose shoulders Madame Giry held with a reassuring grip had chocolate-brown curls that stuck out of her braid. She was a rather sad thing to watch, if she was being honest, but Jovan couldn't help but also be impressed with the composed way the girl was holding herself in front of the ballet corps. She even had the smallest of smiles playing on her lips, but it was not enough to draw Jovan's attention away from the melancholy she held in her wide-eyed gaze.

Her mind barely processed the words that left Madame Giry's lips, oozing with the familiar sternness she always had whenever she spoke, as Jovan's curious gaze never left the girl or the way she was wringing her hands out of anxiety. Poor thing, Jovan thought. They were already halfway through production and she could only hope that the girl would be able to deal with the pressure of having to learn all the steps for their latest opera in half the time it took for the rest of the ballet corps to learn.

Or, perhaps, that would not be the case. Maybe she would just be included in the next opera. Who was Jovan to know, anyway?

Jovan's train of thought was disrupted when she felt a heavy weight press on the spot next to her, and she immediately protested.

"Move! There, no ― a little bit more. It's hot enough in here, you know."

A chuckle escaped from the 'intruder' whom she recognized to be one of her fellow stagehands. "Relax, Jo," Mateo answered, obeying her as he sat a foot away from her, but not before patting the beret that crowned Jovan's head. She pushed his hand away with a soft snarl.

"Funny, this habit of yours ― watching whenever someone new arrives," Mateo commented, looking down at the stage. "One of these days, someone's going to mistake you for the Pha―"

Jovan reached to slap his knee before he could even finish. " _Quiet._ So what if I'm curious?"

"It's going to get you killed. You know what they say about the cat..."

She didn't even bother to give the younger boy a reply as she gave a roll of her eyes. She continued to watch as Madame Giry released the curly-haired girl and it served as a signal of sorts for the rest of the ballet corps to approach her and bombard her with their questions and greetings. Marguerite, or more famously known as Meg, instantly grabbed the new girl's hand with much enthusiasm. What else was to be expected from the girl who was almost quite literally a ray of sunshine? Jovan found herself chuckling at the adorable sight, tugging at her heartstrings. For a moment, she forgot of the exhaustion seeping into her bones.

" _Christine, where did you come from?_ " " _You have such beautiful hair!_ " " _Would you like to be friends?_ " A chorus of inquiries rose from below the stage before the maestro barked at the younger ballerinas to take their business to their dormitories instead, deciding to grant them the last hour of rehearsals to themselves as they showered the newcomer with attention. Without a second to waste, the girls immediately scurried off like the rats they were, with little Meg practically dragging Christine behind her. Once the stage was cleared, Monsieur Reyer announced for rehearsals to resume.

Jovan finally finished the last of her pastry before she wiped her fingers on the leg of her trousers. "Back to work," she muttered as she crossed over towards the eaves, ruffling Mateo's brown locks as she passed by him, before the younger boy pushed her hand away.

"Yes, yes. You just really love to work, don't you?" he scoffed.

But Jovan missed the chance to answer him as she caught movement in the dim lighting of the rafters. A flash of black disappeared as fast as it had moved. It was something that could've been easily missed if another person had seen it, but this was Jovan and her eyesight was well adapted to the dark.

However, she simply waved it away as either another one of the stagehands or their resident Peeping Tom, Joseph Buquet, before her mind could even delve into the possibility of a certain ghost lurking in the shadows not far from where she stood.

Behind her, Mateo had stood up to his feet. "Jovan, did you see something?"

She faced him and arched an eyebrow. "I saw a hideous beast," she remarked dramatically, a smirk tugging on her lips. "And, oh my ― I'm looking at him now!"

Several minutes later, Monsieur Reyer managed to catch the two of them fooling around above in the rafters during the last half-hour of rehearsals.

* * *

Tomorrow arrived too fast as the hours quickly passed by in a blur for Jovan. As rehearsals commenced below, she moved about the rafters almost mechanically, obeying where her feet led her whenever she recognized her cues. Backdrops fell and props came and go with their respective scenes as Jovan worked with the other stagehands to keep up with the maestro's instructions.

It was not until halfway through their rehearsals that their peaceful routine was disturbed. Monsieur Lefèvre suddenly made his entrance onto the stage, an envelope dangling from his fingers that bore an all too familiar skull made out of red wax. The moment everyone saw the letter, performers fell out of their places and the instrumentalists ceased their playing. Crew members left their posts to gather on the stage, joining the crowd that had formed around their manager.

Jovan pushed her way to the front of the circle, ignoring her fellow stagehands' snide comments as she pushed them aside, until she arrived by Mateo's side. Monsieur Lefèvre cleared his throat before he opened the envelope and took out the letter. As he read the Opera Ghost's comments and criticisms, whispers and protests began to erupt among the crew and performers. Monsieur Reyer let out a frustrated wail from the orchestra pit before he began to move around his instrumentalists, flipping through their music sheets and telling a few of them of what they were doing wrong and what they needed to improve, as per the Opera Ghost's letter.

Once their manager finished reading the letter, he simply gave an exasperated sigh before requesting for their resident ghost's letter to be followed, down to every last word. He then left the stage without another word, leaving his employees to rant their complaints to each other.

"Corrections and improvements, again?" someone muttered behind Jovan.

"At least he's not as demanding as last time," she heard Mateo answer from her side.

"At least we're doing something right," Jovan added, relief flooding her veins when she'd heard no complaints regarding the stagehands' work. She was about to return to her post when one of the stagehands stepped forward to block her way.

"Well, if something was wrong, at least we'll know immediately whose fault it was," a jeer came from the stagehand as he eyed her with a glint in his eye. A round of sneers and chuckles followed his words.

Jovan saw red and felt her temper flare. Before she could stop herself, she raised her arm and struck a closed fist into the stagehand's face.

An anguished howl of pain escaped the stagehand's mouth. Upon hearing the commotion, Monsieur Reyer wasted no time in sending Jovan to the dormitories where he sentenced her to spend the rest of the day. Jovan didn't even protest as she left without another word, clenched fists shaking as the crew made a way for her, careful not to be in the way of her explosive temper.

* * *

"This is unladylike, Jovan!" Elea screeched at her, her ballet shoes dangling from her arm by their ribbons. She paced impatiently before a bed where Jovan's form was stretched across on. The cast and crew were on a break and Elea had immediately rushed to the dormitories to check on her friend before Madame Giry could stop her.

"If you've forgotten, I stopped being a lady a few months ago," Jovan deadpanned as she ran a hand through her short red locks. Her hair ended three inches below her chin and were unevenly cut. Without her beret shading her hair, their color became visible with the help of the afternoon sun's light filtering through the dormitory window.

"Well, excuse me for worrying." Elea crossed her arms over her chest. "If you've forgotten too, if you step a toe out of line, you're out of the opera house for good. You're practically a charity case―"

"Don't remind me," Jovan rasped, giving the ballerina a pointed look. Sometimes, Elea's tongue cut too sharp. On most days, Jovan didn't mind her friend's honesty, but it seemed that her skin wasn't as thick as she thought it was. "Who's going to kick me out anyway? Monsieur Reyer's already scolded me two days in a row this week and he hasn't told me to leave yet ― I mean, not like he could, anyway. Monsieur Lefèvre's too busy to bother or care, and Madame Giry's... well, she doesn't mind, she's handled worse."

"What about the Opera Ghost?" Elea's tone grew quiet and grim as she sat herself on the edge of Jovan's bed.

"Opera Ghost?" Jovan gave a shrug of her shoulders, her eyebrows knitting in confusion. She'd never really given much thought to what their resident ghost thought about her work, not when there was not a single complaint from his letters directed at her. "Doesn't seem to care either. I've always done a good job at being a stagehand, thank you very much."

A heavy silence filled the air as Elea stared at her feet. Jovan could see that the ballerina was genuinely concerned for her well-being, and she placed a hand on Elea's shoulder to give her a reassuring squeeze.

"I'll be fine," she remarked before nudging Elea away from her bed. "Now go. Before Madame Gir―"

Jovan stopped in the middle of her sentence when her eyes spotted a curly-haired girl enter the room. Christine Daaé's eyes widened when they landed on Jovan's form on her bed, most likely out of shock at the trousers she wore and how dirty she was from working in the rafters. Not to mention, she looked completely out of place in the tidiness of the dormitory that Jovan shared with Elea, Christine, and three more girls. Despite not being a part of the ballet corps, Jovan had been sent to stay in their dormitory since she was the only female among the stagehands and it wouldn't have been exactly safe for her to sleep in a room filled with men.

"Hello there," Elea greeted when she saw Christine enter, rushing to the young girl before picking her up and placing her on Jovan's bed. Christine's face lit up with a smile.

"Hi. Are you new here?" she asked Jovan.

Jovan gave a smile of her own, wiping away at her own cheek where she knew there was a smudge of dirt. "Oh no. I arrived here two months ago." She realized that despite sharing the same room, Christine had never seen her yet, probably due to the fact that she arrived late last night when everyone else was fast asleep while she left too early this morning before everyone else was even awake.

"I see," Christine answered. "What do you do around here?"

"I take care of the rigging and the scenery."

Unfortunately, the three had little time to continue their small talk as Madame Giry began to call back for the ballet corps on stage. Elea was quick to leave with Christine, not wanting to let the young girl get in trouble on her second day. Jovan couldn't help but feel a stab of grief at the absence of the two, but she was quick to distract herself from her loneliness as she allowed herself to get lost in the music coming from the auditorium.

Above her, the wooden boards creaked, but Jovan was too absorbed in the orchestra's music to notice.

* * *

His interest in the newcomer was... _surprising_ , to say the least. He didn't know why, but there was a strange pull he felt towards her. For all his years living in the bowels of the opera house, she was the youngest orphan they had taken in. Naturally, a protective urge overcame most of the crew and performers, at least those who were decent. Shockingly, or perhaps not, Erik was included among the former. From the moment Christine Daaé arrived, his eyes didn't dare to linger far from her.

How could Erik describe this pull he felt towards the young girl? Like a magnet to metal? Like a moth to a flame? It was indescribable, that was for sure. Even with all his skill and talent, he failed to put into words what this mystery was that he found himself tangled in.

Perhaps it was how she carried herself. Erik had expected her to cower behind Antoinette's skirts the moment they stepped onto the stage but, instead, she had held herself with poise. She had even looked happy as she was introduced to her new family, and the only sign that allowed Erik to see through her facade was the way she was wringing her hands. Needless to say, he was impressed. She held herself better than the girl who threw a fit last year when her parents promised to return to her in the afternoon after rehearsals were done. Fortunately, Monsieur Lefèvre had enough sense in him to ax the girl after a month, despite the trouble of having to deal with the girl's titled parents.

Christine however... Erik didn't think she had a title to her name. He had heard from a conversation between Antoinette and Monsieur Lefèvre that the girl was the daughter of a Swedish violinist, a musical prodigy who had left the world too early, orphaning his only child in the process. Antoinette, who had been a friend to him, had been quick to take in the girl, as if she were her own. Antoinette had spoken to their manager, telling of Christine's years in an academy where she had been trained not only in the art of dancing, but singing as well.

The daughter of a famed violinist who knew how to dance and sing. These things had been enough to pique Erik's curiosity until...

 _"Sing? But all she did was dance when we asked her to audition," a puzzled Monsieur Lefèvre wondered._

 _Antoinette sighed. "I'm afraid she lost her passion for singing after Gustave passed away."_

It would explain the sorrow that he had seen in her brown eyes the moment she stepped foot into his opera house. Not only had she lost her dearest father but she had also broken a wing, it seemed. If only someone could teach her how to take flight again...

Erik lost himself to the chatter and music below as he waited for their manager to arrive ― it should be anytime now. It was only an hour ago when he had asked Antoinette to deliver a new letter containing his comments for the latest opera. He had come to see whether the staff of the opera house were wise enough to follow his words. He lingered in the shadows of the rafters until, finally, Monsieur Lefèvre arrived with the letter in his hand.

A grin curved Erik's lips as the manager began to read the words from his letter, prompting a strong reaction from the maestro before he proceeded to scour the orchestra pit. The lead soprano went to comfort a chorus girl who, as Erik pointed out in his letter, had trouble hitting notes. Antoinette even gave a sigh upon hearing a comment about two of her ballerinas not having enough grace when it came to execution. The more Monsieur Lefèvre read from the letter, the more his features developed a tired look to them. As he read the last lines written on the paper he held, Erik's gaze went to the newest addition to the ballet corps as Meg held on to Christine's hand.

The last lines consisted of a greeting and welcome dedicated to the Swedish girl. As Monsieur Lefèvre read his words, Erik thought he saw the faintest of smiles trace the young girl's lips.

Immediately after that, Monsieur Lefèvre folded up the letter before telling the cast and crew to follow the Opera Ghost's words. He then made his exit, leaving behind him his employees who began to spill their complaints and protests. Erik was about to take this as his cue to leave when an uproar emanated from the crowd below.

Lo and behold, a stagehand clutched a hand to his nose as red-haired girl stood before him, glancing at her knuckles before Monsieur Reyer barked at her to catch her attention. The maestro then gave her a quick scolding before sending her to the dormitories, and the girl obeyed without a complaint before walking out. The crowd parted to make a way for her, whispers of distaste following her but she appeared to pay no attention to them.

Erik vaguely recognized the girl as Jovan Rousseau, a girl lacking any musical talent who had arrived to the Opéra Populaire with nothing but her nerve. He had found himself bewildered at first with her choice of occupation but he was quick to let it slide. As long as she could handle herself, he didn't mind. And from what he had just witnessed, she did seem more than capable of holding her own against the obscene majority of the stagehands.

He had never paid much attention to Jovan and had always been careful to put distance between himself and the girl. It was not uncommon for the employees of the opera house to have occasional brushes with him as the Opera Ghost, which they easily dismissed as supernatural occurrences, but there was just something in his gut that told him if he happened to cross paths with the female stagehand, she would not be as easily fooled like the rest, despite the superstitions that strongly ran amok in the Opéra Populaire.

But that was not the only reason as to why he didn't want to have to do anything with her, if Erik was being honest.

One of Mateo's offhand comments the previous day, whom Erik recognized as the only one of the stagehands that Jovan had befriended, was close to the reason why Erik refused to even look at Jovan at times. The comment he never got to finish after she'd interrupted him.

 _One of these days, someone's going to mistake you for the Phantom._

Erik wasn't going to lie ― he was rather impressed with the way she had punched her fellow stagehand (the man deserved it very much, Erik thought) but her actions reminded him of the short temper that she had which was too similar to the one he possessed. It was both fascinating and chilling at the same time, to know that out there in the world, there was someone just like him. Her temper, her curiosity, the way she looked so at peace during her isolation at that very moment...

He wasn't even aware that he had followed Jovan back to her dormitory ― he stood in the empty, dusty room that occupied the space directly above her shared room. The wooden boards beneath his feet had narrow slits that allowed him to peek down at the dormitory below. His narrowed eyes studied her lounging form on her bed, a distant look in her eyes as music drifted from the auditorium to both their ears. Her lips were moving to the lyrics of the song but no sound escaped them.

Erik almost always noticed everything and everyone around him. It was both a gift and a curse. And whether he was aware of it or not, this was not the first time that he had seen a fragment of himself reflected in the red-haired stagehand.

With a quiet sigh, Erik walked away, the wood creaking beneath his feet.


	2. Tales And Tricks

Author's Note: Good messieurs and mesdames, I would like to welcome all of you to my first venture into the Phantom's territory! This is actually a rewrite of a fic bearing the same name; I still consider it my first though since the old version only got as far as six chapters before I decided to revise it. This will be quite a challenge for me seeing as I don't typically write for other time periods besides the current one we're in so wish me luck!

I'm going to go ahead and apologize for any inaccuracies, and say that you're welcome to point out anything that needs to be corrected. That said, this story might still be anachronistic by intention in some parts. That first chapter was a rocky start, I'll admit, but it served its purpose of setting things up and establishing characters! Last note, this story will be a mix of the books, movie, and musical, but dominantly the movie and musical (I'll be following the years/time period of the musical more closely though). Alright, I'm going to stop here now. Enjoy!

* * *

( _two_ )

 **TALES AND TRICKS**

* * *

Two months. About two months had passed since she arrived at Paris' most prestigious opera house yet it already felt like a year.

Jovan stared at her hands, the skin on them beginning to thicken and harden after two months' worth of working as a stagehand. She could've chosen to assist with the costumes, but she hadn't really liked the idea of having to help dress up some of the pompous chorus girls and having to deal with the close quarters of the dressing rooms. She could've chosen to work in the art department but, alas, her fingers were clumsy with a paintbrush and having to deal with the production design required her to socialize with far more people than she desired.

So here she was, helping with the rigging along with her fellow stagehands while the ballet rats below performed their dance number from the second act. To the side of the stage, Madame Giry watched over her dancers and stood not far from Christine who was being taught separately by another ballerina of the steps that were currently being performed onstage. Once the backdrop had been changed according to the scene being performed, Jovan and the rest of the stagehands allowed themselves to relax for a moment as they watched the dance number unfold below.

A wolf-whistle came from one of the men to her right side but he was ignored. Jovan couldn't help but admire the unwavering focus of the ballet rats below as they continued moving with unrivaled grace, their expressions changing to match the mood of the music they were dancing to. She even felt a small pang of jealousy as she watched their limbs move, fluid as flowing water.

From the corner of her eye, Jovan saw Mateo walk to her side. "The Phantom won't be pleased with this," he whispered.

"What makes you say so?" Jovan answered. The younger stagehand seemed a tad too invested in whatever their Opera Ghost thought about the productions.

"Cassie's moves are a beat late, if you watch carefully." He proceeded to point at a girl of sixteen with caramel-colored locks.

Jovan gave a shake of her head. "I didn't even notice."

"Believe me. If I noticed, our Opera Ghost's sure to notice."

A quiet sigh slipped from her lips. She might be fairly new in the opera house but two months had been more than enough to learn that majority of the staff were actually an overly superstitious bunch. Not a single week passed by without at least a single whisper about the Phantom circulating around the cast and crew. Murmurs of a shadow moving backstage and footfalls in the corridors at night. Ghost stories were not foreign to Jovan but she knew one when she heard one, and the tales of the Opera Ghost were _not_ among them. At least, that was what she thought.

Jovan felt Mateo's concerned gaze on her. "You don't believe in him, do you?"

"Oh, I believe in him. And I believe in ghosts, yes," Jovan faced him with arched brows. "But I don't believe that your famous Phantom is a ghost."

* * *

Jovan impatiently tapped her pen against her knee. Behind the curtains of her bed, she quietly chewed on her bottom lip as she waited for the words to come. But they never came. For over an hour, she'd been waiting for any inspiration to hit her while she stared at the blank paper on her lap, but it seemed that this night won't be any different from the previous nights since she arrived at the Opéra Populaire. Writer's block had to be one of the most frustrating things she'd ever had to deal with. A quiet sigh left her lips.

A hand clutched the curtain to her right as it was pulled away. Elea's face greeted hers in the dark. "Have you seen Maeva?"

Jovan arched a brow, recognizing the name belonging to one of her roommates. She gave a shake of her head. "No, I haven't. Isn't she here?"

"We haven't seen her since dinner," her friend replied, eyebrows furrowing in worry. "Don't you think..."

The redhead dropped her pen and parchment on to the bed with an exasperated sigh. "Are you thinking of the Phantom? Taking her? _Honestly?_ "

Elea shrugged with one shoulder. "I mean, we can't cross that off the list of possibilities, can we?"

"But I thought you said that he'd never taken anyone else before."

The door to their room opened with a bang as two people walked in. Jovan rose from her bed to see who the newcomers were and was stunned to see their missing roommate swaggering in with a young man's arm encircling her waist. Her face was flushed and her skin glistened with sweat. It was quite obvious as to where Maeva had been and what she had been doing with the stagehand by her side. Jovan unconsciously backed a step away at the intrusion, her eyes tapering on the young man and his audacity to intrude into their dormitory at such a late hour.

Maeva gave a giggle as the stagehand led her towards their bed. "Hector, I'm perfectly fine―"

Jovan watched as Elea strode over to the couple, tightening her robe over her frame as she did so to give herself some form of decency. Elea was the oldest girl in the room, and it automatically fell upon her to take care of her roommates when the need arose. She cleared her throat as Hector gave her a casual wave.

"Where on God's green Earth have you been? Have you forgotten that we still have rehearsals tomorrow? _It's late!_ "

"Oh please, Elea. Nobody told you to wait for me. Besides, I was simply... having _fun_ with Hector here." Maeva gave the older ballerina a smile that was anything but innocent as she sank into her bed.

From one corner of the room was a chorus girl named Tess who gave a yawn at Maeva's words. "Elea here thought that the Phantom had taken you," she coolly remarked.

Jovan watched Elea wince at Tess' statement. "I did not!" Elea denied. "Besides, why would a ghost want a tart like you?"

Maeva's mouth fell open. "Take that back!"

Before Elea could give a reply, Hector shushed both girls and took out a flask from his trousers' pocket. "Now, now, ladies. There's no need to fight at such a late hour―"

"Oh, shut it," Elea hissed. "You're not even supposed to be here. Get out."

Hector playfully waggled his eyebrows at her before taking a sip from his flask, seating himself next to Maeva. "Not so fast, love. Maeva actually brought me here for a reason. I came to talk to you about our dearest Phantom."

Jovan gave a roll of her eyes. She refused to deal with this tonight! She was about to climb back into bed when she noticed the other girls in the room perk up upon hearing Hector's words. Even Christine, the youngest among them who was supposed to have fallen asleep a long time ago, had drawn back her own curtains out of curiosity. With an audible sigh, Jovan deciding to give what Hector was about to say a chance, and positioned herself on the edge of her bed to listen.

The stagehand huffed with pride, seeing as he had gathered all their attention. Even Elea had failed to give him a reply after he spoke. Hector cleared his throat then pointed in Jovan's direction with a smirk playing on his lips.

"You, love. Tell me a story you've heard about him," he said, earning a giggle from Maeva. At that point, it became clear that the ballerina was not sober.

Jovan blinked at the unexpected attention. "A... story? What kind?"

"About how our beloved specter came to our opera house."

Jovan gave a shrug of one of her shoulders. She'd heard countless stories of how the Opera Ghost came to be but out of all of them, there was one that actually stuck with her. For what reason though, she was unable to fathom.

Perhaps it was just her penchant for tragedies. That didn't mean that she believed the story though, not one bit.

"I heard the costume mistress talk about this one a few weeks ago ― that the Phantom was the lead tenor a few years back. He died an untimely death, murdered in his room just after his first performance. She said that he'd left every man and woman believing that he was an angel sent from heaven, with a voice that could not be from this world. One of the chorus members killed him out of envy."

"Ooh," Tess whispered sarcastically. "An angel? How did he come to be the feared Opera Ghost then?"

"Well," Jovan cleared her throat. "He... came back as a vengeful spirit. Or so I was told."

Hector gave a thoughtful nod at her words before offering his flask to Elea, who refused. He took another sip before he looked back at the redhead. "Interesting. But what have you to say about his face?"

Jovan's eyebrows knitted in confusion. "His face?"

* * *

"C'mon, you must've heard of Joseph Buquet talk about it at least once!" Hector's voice echoed from below. "We work with him after all, and the buffoon loves to bring it up whenever he can."

Erik knew very well of the stories about him that scattered among the employees of the Opéra Populaire. That didn't mean that he was okay with them. Well, with most of them anyway. Mainly, he didn't mind the rumors and gossip about him because they helped boost his reputation as the fearsome Opera Ghost and scared everyone into obedience. They helped keep the performers and crew members on their toes at all times. But there were also times when some people tended to cross a line, much like the stagehand who was currently speaking, what with their exaggerations and whatnot.

"I don't know if you've noticed but I tend to stay away from that pig," Erik heard Jovan scoff.

While he didn't appreciate a large number of the stories that were being spread about him, it wasn't like he could do something about them anyway. If he caused a mishap or an accident for every single time someone dropped a foul rumor about him, he wouldn't be taken so seriously at all. Hence, he was left to carefully pick the occasions on when he could actually do something about a story being told about him.

This moment was one of them, he decided. If there was something that Erik couldn't stand, it was someone talking about the distorted part of him. The very face that condemned him to live the life of a ghost, of an outcast.

"Hm, smart girl," the stagehand commented, getting to his feet. "Anyways, I've been told that our Phantom has skin as yellow as parchment, eyes as red as your guts, and a black hole in the middle of his face where his nose should've been!" _Oh, how original_.

"This is ridiculous―"

 _This is outrageous!_ Erik clenched his fists as he felt his temper rise. He began to tremble with anger with what his ears were hearing. _Insolent boy!_

"Shut it, Elea!" Hector shushed the girl and was about to take a sip from his flask when he miscalculated the distance between its opening and his lips and the liquor spilled onto his shirt instead. "Damn it!"

Maeva rose and rushed to him. "Hector―"

"Let me finish!" He pushed her away, the alcohol's effects finally beginning to put its hold on him. "As I was saying, his skin also has a tendency to fall off his bones at inopportune times. He walks like death, they say, carrying with him a stench so awful―"

 _That was it!_ Without a second to waste, Erik quietly got down on his knees and began to feel around the wooden boards beneath him. He might've prided himself with his unparalleled skill in music but he was also well-versed in the art of mischief and chaos. This boy was going to regret the words that were escaping from his mouth when morning arrived, Erik was going to make sure of that.

He pressed around the wooden planks until he finally felt one of them shift in the slightest. A smirk tugged on his lips as he carefully held onto the wooden board and lifted it out of place. He placed it by his side and carefully peeked below. From his spot, Erik was positively sure that he would remain invisible to any eyes that happened to wonder near the ceiling of the room. Pitch-black darkness imbued every inch of the space Erik was occupying at the very moment that only the sharpest of eyes would be able to see his outline in the dark.

Careful not to make a sound, he pulled out a matchbox from his pocket and pulled out one of the matches. He held it near the side of the matchbox as he patiently waited now. All he needed was for the fool to walk under his spot and then...

Hector stumbled right beneath him, and Erik held his breath. The stagehand continued to detail the Phantom's supposedly grotesque appearance while he pointed a finger at Jovan for some reason that had slipped Erik's attention. But he had stopped processing Hector's words a moment ago, instead pouring his attention into what he was about to do.

"Hector," he whispered, throwing his voice just for the stagehand to hear. "Above you."

"Yes?" In his drunk state, the stagehand simply gave a smile before he looked above him. He narrowed his eyes in an attempt to see in the dark. With his chin now tilted up towards the ceiling, his chest was vulnerable for Erik to drop the match on. He lit it with a flick of his wrist then dropped it.

The match landed right on the area where Hector had spilled his liquor. The fabric of his shirt instantly caught fire and a panicked scream escaped the fool's mouth.

" _FIRE!_ PUT IT OUT―"

Maeva gave a screech of her own as she ran straight for the door while Hector continued screaming, scratching at the flames on his chest as he tried to put them out. Erik silently replaced the wooden board from where he had taken it from before any of the girls could even come near Hector. He watched as Elea shrieked for a glass of water before Tess, now fully awake, bounded for the door to fetch said glass.

"Call Madame Giry!" Elea cried out as she grabbed the nearest pillow and began to slam it against Hector's chest repeatedly in an attempt to put out the flames. Hector clawed at his shirt, struggling to remove it, and he stumbled, his back making contact with the floor with a heavy thud. Elea had not stopped in striking him with the pillow while Jovan had long gone out the door to call for the ballet headmistress.

Out of the six girls who occupied the dormitory, only Elea, a girl of fourteen named Adèle, and Christine were left to tend to the stagehand on fire. Adèle was screaming for Tess and Jovan to come back while Christine was rummaging through the trunks and nightstands for God-knows-what.

All in all, it was a sight amusing enough to lift Erik's spirits up. Dark pleasure coursed through him as he watched the chaos unfold below him. The hour was late and the incident was sure to cause a racket that would wake up some, if not all, of the dormitories.

It wasn't long before Tess arrived and she quickly ran towards Hector and poured on his chest the glass of water she held in her hands. Jovan entered next with Antoinette in tow, dark circles surrounding her eyes as she screamed for everyone to vacate the room save for Elea. All the girls obeyed her and rushed to evacuate their dormitory while Antoinette calmed the flapping stagehand.

Elea held Hector down as Antoinette tore his shirt in two, pulling away what was left of the burnt fabric to see the damage that was done.

Erik's view of whatever wound he could've caused was blocked by Antoinette's form hovering over the stagehand, who had now fallen unconscious. Incomprehensible whispers were exchanged between the two females before he finally heard something coherent.

"Elea, call the doctor."

Erik heaved a content sigh.


	3. First Light

Author's Note: Thank you so much to those who sent in reviews! This one's a rather short chapter but it's like that for a reason. I promise that the next chapter's way more exciting than this one.

I ought to mention that this fic's loaded with symbolism and foreshadowing, seeing as I'm a sucker for those things when it comes to stories. As in there's lots of it that I've written here. So if I were you, I'd do my best not to pass over the details so that it'll be much more satisfying when all the pieces fit together in the end!

Don't forget to leave a review! I'd love to hear what I should improve and what I should maintain in writing this story. Constructive criticism is more than welcome!

* * *

( _three_ )

 **FIRST LIGHT**

* * *

"Jovan! What was that racket last night?" Mateo called as he chased after the redhead who had begun climbing up the spiral staircase that led to the rooftop.

"I'm surprised ― I thought stories spread like the plague here," Jovan remarked, stealing a glance at the younger stagehand for a second before she continued her ascent.

"Not funny, Jo ― hey, slow down!" he answered as he nearly slipped on one of the steps. The girl was unbelievably fast on her feet, and Mateo was seriously considering abandoning his friend because of the way the muscles in his legs had began to protest. It had been his suggestion to visit the rooftop on the morning after the incident with Hector, and Jovan was quick to take up his offer, stating that she'd never thought of climbing up there ever since she arrived. She had bolted up the stairs before Mateo could even finish lacing his boots.

The door to the rooftop slammed open as the cold morning air greeted Jovan. Behind her, Mateo was huffing in exhaustion from the climb. But Jovan was too delighted with her new discovery that she paid no mind towards her friend. As if in a trance, she let her feet take her out the door and between the two statues that stood like guards to the entrance. A smile graced her features as she regarded her new surrounding with childlike wonder.

"This is amazing!"

* * *

The thrill from last night's events had finally worn off and it left Erik numb with exhaustion in his bones.

He couldn't even completely grasp what he was feeling right now. He didn't even compose any music the previous day and he had not laid a single finger on any of his instruments. He had spent the entirety of yesterday watching and shadowing various people from the opera house, which was an activity that wasn't tiring at all. So what was this weariness that was seeping under his skin?

Erik reached for his pocket watch from his waistcoat. The time read a quarter after five. He rose from his seat and grabbed his cloak.

A moment later, he found himself setting foot on the cobblestone steps of the rooftop.

The mornings were cold, but not as cold as the nights he spent alone in his lair. Erik gave a deep intake of breathe, letting the cool air infiltrate his lungs. Dawn had not broken yet and the sky was painted a deep navy blue. It was only a pity that the stars were no longer there to add to the unspeakable beauty of it all. One of the things that must've made Erik admire the night so much were the stars that helped define the night.

He never went much outside of the opera house, so the closest he could ever get to the world outside was watching the streets from the rooftop. At such an early hour however, only a handful of people were ambling their way on the sidewalks. Erik much preferred visiting the rooftop at night but to miss the crack of dawn was something he couldn't bear to do right now, for some reason. There was just something calming in watching the sun bleed its light as it began its ascent, spilling shades of orange and pink into the skies. The sight always managed to lull his soul ― it silenced the echoes and the villains in his head.

If the music of the night roused the passion in his mind and heart, the dawn was an delicate melody that soothed his aching soul.

The bang of a door pierced the silence. Erik closed his eyes in irritation. He rarely went up anymore so couldn't he simply have this one morning all to himself?

"This is amazing!" a distinct voice rang out after a brief moment and Erik quickly recognized it by its husky quality. For a girl of eighteen, Jovan Rousseau had an unusually deep voice that sounded much mature for a girl of her age. Whether she was aware of it or not, every time she spoke, her voice radiated a confidence and sensuality that was sure to catch the attention of everyone in the vicinity (including Erik, whether he admitted it not). Erik liked to think of this quality of hers as a recompense for her lack of any musical talents.

He watched as she walked closer to the ledge while Erik backed away from sight, shielding himself behind a looming statue that hid him from her sight. Jovan was wearing her usual button-up shirt, vest, and trousers. Her beret sat atop her head. Erik could only guess that she preferred wearing men's clothes for their practicality. After all, she couldn't exactly work in the rafters in a dress or skirt. He saw that she was not alone when he spotted one of the younger stagehands trailing behind her, seemingly out of breath.

"I didn't know you could climb stairs that fast," Mateo commented, leaning against the ledge for support.

A smile curved Jovan's lips as she leaned against the ledge as well. "I didn't know you could be so slow."

The two stagehands continued their banter. Erik didn't realize it until now but he found himself actually relieved that it was those two who had climbed up and not any of the rest of the opera staff. He'd been expecting a lovesick couple at first, the thought of which made him grimace, as it was not uncommon for couples to make their escapades to the rooftop. He would then have to leave to give them their own privacy but, fortunately, it was Jovan and Mateo who had come up. These two, he thought, he could at least tolerate. As far as he knew anyway, the two had nothing but a platonic relationship between them, because if the rumors were true, then Mateo was not at all interested in the opposite sex.

Now, if only they weren't so loud with their conversation...

"You stare at the sky as if you haven't seen it in years." Erik heard the boy switch topics.

"Well, I haven't. I've only seen it through windows ever since I arrived." Jovan replied as she were stating a fact.

"You've been here two months, Jo. _Two months._ Don't you ever leave the opera house?" Mateo's voice was filled with bewilderment.

"No. I... can't. Not exactly."

Erik had been trying so hard to drown out their voices in the background when their sudden change of subject caught him off guard. He realized that this was the first time that he was hearing or learning about this. He'd never paid close attention to Jovan that it slipped his observation that she hadn't left the opera house at all since her arrival.

"Not even on Sundays? Don't you go to church?"

Jovan gave a chuckle, a humorless one. "Oh, no. I'm not exactly religious, no." A quaint sigh slipped from her lips. "It's just that... I've been searching for God everywhere but I just _can't_ find him. So no, I don't go to church."

Something surged through Erik as he heard the words escaping her mouth. A familiarity that hummed in his veins, warming him as he felt tension unlatch from his muscles. Was this... empathy? _Again?_

A minute of silence filled the air before Mateo gave a reply. "Look, Jo. I don't know what you went through before you came here but whatever it was, I'm sorry that it happened to you."

A scoff escaped the redhead. "Don't be, you didn't do anything wrong." Her tone was bitter. "You don't even know what happened to me, so..."

In the distance, the sun began to rose from its slumber, pouring out its warmth and light into the world previously shaded by night. Erik tore away his gaze from the two stagehands as his eyes gazed out into the skies ― a beginning and an end coalesced into a single moment that never failed to take his breath away. He watched as hues of pastel slowly seeped into the remaining darkness, washing away what was left of the night.

The bickering duo had fallen into a comfortable silence as well. Erik couldn't help but let his curiosity grow as he let his gaze wander to the red-haired stagehand. Whatever kind of tragedy could have befallen her that sentenced her to a life of hiding, much like him? If he had correctly read between the lines of what she said earlier, there was something that was keeping her from leaving the safety of the opera house. But what could it be?


	4. The Devil

Author's Note: Okay, this one's just a bit longer by a few words but, like I promised, more exciting! Strap on your seat belts, ladies and gents, and don't forget to drop a review when you reach the finish line!

* * *

( _four_ )

 **THE DEVIL**

* * *

Opéra Populaire's premiere for _La Albinia_ proved to be a busy affair for everyone, including Jovan. While working with the scene-shifting throughout the show proved to be a challenging task, it failed to completely exhaust her, leaving her without any excuse but to mingle with the people at the gala. When Elea had dragged her out of the rafters with the intent of forcing her to socialize with the crowd, Jovan complied with Elea's request on the condition that she only interact with the employees of the opera house. The ballerina had been quite reluctant to accept her terms but she knew better than to drag out Jovan into the audience, which was mostly composed of noble-born men and women and families with titles to their name ― exactly the kind of crowd that Jovan was doing her best to avoid. And so Elea had pulled down the redhead backstage, where the majority of the crew members and performers had long begun to celebrate into the night.

Even among faces that were familiar to her, socializing proved to be a far more tiring task than working as a stagehand. Not only did Jovan have to bear with the small talk but, at one point, she had to fend off a stagehand's wandering hands (another punch would've drove him away for good, but she didn't want to ruin Monsieur Lefèvre's good mood that night). When it became apparent that Jovan was merely going to have an experience that was far from relaxing, she took her leave and quietly made her way to the dormitories, careful not to run into anybody who didn't work at the opera house.

She took her sweet, quiet time on the way to her room, blending in and out of the shadows in the current corridor that she was prowling through. It was dimly lit with only a few candelabras lit throughout and, as far as she knew, empty, save for one of the chorus girls that had ran past her just a moment ago. The girl had looked scared out of her wits but Jovan simply waved it off as the alcohol messing with the girl's mind and senses. After all, in a dark corridor, the eyes could be easily tricked into seeing shapes and faces that were not actually there.

Jovan's mind went blank when she slammed into something sturdy, and her heart jumped in her chest ― she'd just walked straight into someone and hit their chest, she belatedly realized. She quickly backed a step away to give the person and herself some much-needed space as an apology stumbled out of her mouth.

"Apologies, monsieur! I was not looking where I was headed and―"

The words froze in her mouth when the nearest candelabra's candles went out without any warning. A gust of wind blew by and snuffed out the lives of the small flames, trapping Jovan in the darkness with the stranger. She rapidly blinked her eyes to adjust to the darkness and saw, in front of her, the lean outline of a man standing still as a shadow. The smell of faint perfume and candle wax permeated the air.

Jovan felt herself grow cold and her heart roared painfully in her chest. Every rational thought in her head was screaming at her to run but her feet refused to move, as if they were glued to the floor. Her mind was spinning rapidly towards a frenzied degree when she heard the dark figure speak.

"Careful now, or it won't be a gentlemen you'll bump into next."

 _That voice._ The mockery in his tone was unmistakable but Jovan herself overlooking that as she listened to the words that were rolling off his tongue like it was made of silk. Deep with a warm richness that she'd never heard from any other person before. She couldn't help but be reminded of velvet and honey and―

The poet in her was rising to consciousness. She had to control herself.

"Why? Are you a gentleman?"

"I like to think myself as one." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Humor me, mademoiselle."

"Explain the candles first."

"Magic." Jovan couldn't determine whether he was taunting her or not, but she noticed that his tone had grown light.

"Ah, not only a gentleman but a magician as well. I see," she answered warily.

Chattering sounds came from one end of the corridor, voices belonging to that of a male and female. Laughter rang out in the corridor as Jovan felt a leather-gloved hand grab her wrist and press her to the side of the corridor, her back slamming against the wall.

" _Ow!_ " She exclaimed, more out of surprise than in pain. She was immediately shushed by the stranger, as she watched two dark figures pass by in front of her.

"Damn, it's dark in here, isn't it?" one of them said, a stagehand.

"I reckon someone forgot to light the candles in this part," the other replied, a ballerina.

Once the couple were out of the dark part in the corridor, Jovan felt the grip on her wrist loosen. She tugged her arm away and searched in the dark for the stranger in vain. Her heart stuttered. She felt some distance put between them and she felt grateful for it. Their close proximity earlier left a heady effect on her senses.

"Who are you? What are you?" She tried not to snarl out the words. Her exhaustion had finally caught up to her and it was making her irritable. She struggled to keep her temper in check.

A deep chuckle resounded in the dark. "A musician, an artist, a magician, an inventor, and an architect. I am many things, mademoiselle."

Jovan blinked. She was not expecting such an answer. "What in the Devil's name are you, really?"

Somewhere in the dark, the sound of soft footfalls approaching her reached her ears. He was walking towards her. Jovan backed away until she was finally back in the illuminated part of the corridor. Only then did the footsteps stop, and the stranger halted before he could step into the light.

"A gentleman would introduce himself," Jovan remarked dryly. Only the outline of the man remained visible, his features obscured by the dark. She didn't know whether to be irritated with the confident way he carried himself.

"I just did, mademoiselle. Were you not listening?" came his cool reply.

"You answered my question of 'what,' not 'who.'"

"It is not an easy question to answer, mademoiselle. I go by many names."

"Then tell me the one you go by most."

Nothing in the world could prepare Jovan for the stranger's next words.

"The Opera Ghost."

Jovan's pulse quickened if that was any more possible. The hairs on the back of her neck bristled but other than that, the fear never set in. There was something that stirred in her but it wasn't fright. Unease maybe, but nothing more. She _wasn't_ scared, she realized. For some reason, she wasn't. Because for all the stories that she'd heard about the Opera Ghost, they were all false. They all spoke of a ghost, a frightful creature who haunted the walls of the opera house. But they were all wrong, she knew that now. Because he wasn't a ghost, no. He was only a man, someone she could touch and smell and hear. She was right after all. At that thought, she couldn't help but feel a shiver of satisfaction.

She was right.

Or, maybe, this was just her mind trying to rationalize the situation.

Another chuckle came from the Phantom. "I have that effect on people," he said. Only then did Jovan realize that her mouth was hanging open. She snapped it shut.

"Most people would run. I didn't," she answered with newfound courage.

"True. That must be an achievement around here. You have my permission to brag about it," he said wryly. Jovan was stunned. He sounded nothing like the character that the stagehands described in their stories! Where was the malice? Why wasn't she being threatened yet? If anything, he only sounded sardonic.

"No one would believe me. They'd demand proof, those imbeciles."

"Nothing I can do about that," he sighed dramatically.

"You could show yourself."

"Mademoiselle, I refuse to reveal myself to you alone. What makes you think I'd show myself to the fools who work in here?"

"Please don't tell me you seriously considered that, I was joking."

"You call that a joke? I feel sorry for you."

"You did ask me to humor you. Apologies if my sense of humor didn't reach your standards."

An amused chuckled rumbled in his throat. "I hate to cut our lovely conversation short but it seems that you are needed."

Before she could ask what he was talking about, a voice called from behind her. "Jove! Are you talking to the shadows?" Elea shouted.

Jovan glanced behind her to see the ballerina approaching fast. She looked sober enough but there was a spring in her steps. She shot one last look into the dark but her eyes failed to make out the form of a man. He was gone and he had slipped away silently as a ghost.

A pang of disappointment hit Jovan before she gave a shake of her head. She shouldn't be disappointed, she should be _glad_ ― glad that she was unscathed from an encounter with the fearsome Opera Ghost.

But he wasn't a ghost, was he?

Blinking hard, Jovan shoved away her thoughts as she turned on her heel and went to approach Elea.


	5. Before The Storm

Author's Note: Thank you so much to my reviewers! I deeply appreciate the comments that you sent in! Now, the very first set of lyrics that you'll come across here goes to the tune of 'Angel Of Music.' That part where Christine sings, " _Father once spoke of an Angel / I used to dream he'd appear / Now as I sing I can sense him / And I know he's here._ " Other than that, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. To those who'll leave reviews, you'll receive my undying love.

* * *

( _five_ )

 **BEFORE THE STORM**

* * *

Their nights of performing _La Albinia_ were finally over and their week-long break had begun. Most of the chorus members had left to return to their respective families while the older ballet girls were whisked away by their lovers and fiancés. Only one-third of the entirety of the Opéra Populaire's staff were left to their own devices within the opera house. Nothing but silence occupied the auditorium, and fine layers of dust had began to gather everywhere.

Christine was in the chapel, again. Ever since the week began, she'd found that the emptiness in her chest had grown, and most of her nights were spent staring at the ceiling of her dormitory while the rest of her roommates were sound asleep. More frequently than she desired, her thoughts drifted to the days of yesterday, long before she arrived at the Opéra Populaire. Days when everything was still perfect, when she still lived in her home by the sea, when she still spent afternoons playing with a boy who called her Little Lotte...

She stopped herself before her thoughts could further but she failed, and they strayed to a kind face whose very picture she now held in her hands. She could still remember him, when he was still full of life on afternoons when he'd play the violin for her. Then those memories were violently ripped away from her and replaced with a cold morning she spent wearing black, remembering an ashen face whispering to her moments before life left him, a deathly still body lying on a bed...

 _Father._

Tears pricked Christine's eyes and she let them fall. In her solitude in the chapel, she was safe from any scrutinizing gaze and was free to cry her heart out until she ran out of tears. But she seemed to have an endless supply of those ― tears of sadness, anger, loneliness, and despair. Then, sometimes, the tears she shed were a vile mixture of all of those.

She lifted her head and stared at the candles in front of her. Only one of them were lit. It reminded her of how cold it was that morning and she found herself wishing that she had brought a shawl with her.

Her voice trembled when she began to sang, something she only did now during her visits to the chapel.

" _Father, you once spoke of an angel._  
 _You said that he would appear._  
 _Yet here I sit and he's nowhere,_  
 _Won't you send him here?_ "

Her body shook with sobs as the last note slipped from her lips. She sounded like a rusted hinge. She remembered the day that her father died ― she not had only lost him on that day but she had lost her voice as well. She didn't care about it much during her mourning period, but now that she lived in an opera house, she couldn't help but long back for her passion for singing. All the music around her were nothing but a reminder of what she had lost, and if there was still one thing that she could retrieve, it would have to be her voice.

The morning light filtered through the stained glass window. She was surrounded by angels painted on the walls but none of them were the angel that she sought out. Christine wiped away her tears with her sleeve when she heard it, a soft whisper from a low, melodious voice.

" _Christine... Christine..._ "

Her breath hitched as she quickly rose to her feet, scanning her surroundings with quick, sweeping glance. There was no one there and she didn't hear any approaching footsteps.

Where did the voice come from?

" _Christine..._ "

Christine approached the window but saw that there was no one on the other side of it. Her brown eyes began to scour the walls of the chapel but they saw nothing. Her hands trembled at her side and her heart was hammering in her chest. She blinked away the tears that sprang to her eyes.

"Father?" Her voice bounced off the chapel's walls. Could she bear to be this foolish to hope? Her father was long dead! So what was this spark that had appeared in her soul the second she heard that voice? No, she couldn't bear to do this. She dabbed her eyes with her sleeve once more and tried not to stutter in her words.

"Who are you?" she asked this time, hoping her choice of words would gain her a reply from whoever was watching. The voice sang out her name once more and Christine felt herself shiver. It was a surreal feeling, hearing a voice speak to her from nowhere with such warmth and gentleness, an ethereal quality to the voice. As if it belonged to an...

"Angel?" she said, her voice sounding small. "Angel of Music?"

A beat passed and Christine began to grieve once more until she heard her reply.

"Yes, Christine. I am your Angel of Music."

Those six words sent tears to her eyes again, but, this time, they were filled with nothing but happiness. Her heart soared and a smile lit up her features, elation sweeping her off her feet.

Her father had not forgotten his promise after all.

* * *

She woke up with a start that morning, unable to shake off the feeling of hands caressing her limbs in her sleep. At the last second, as Jovan blinked her eyes open, she pushed down the urge to scream and sat up in her bed.

Relief shot through her when she gave the dormitory a quick scan, noticing that the only occupants were herself and Christine and Meg, who were oblivious to her. The two girls were chattering excitedly behind the drawn curtains of Christine's bed. Jovan blinked in surprise ― she recalled just hours earlier, through half-lidded eyes, the Swedish ballerina running out of the room with tears running down her cheeks. Seeing Christine in a good mood at that moment forced Jovan to wave off the memory as either a dream or a hallucination of her sleep-addled mind.

The other beds were empty and Jovan assumed that the other girls must have already gone out for the day. Either that or they must have traveled back home to their families for the week. Jovan glanced at the lone clock on the far wall. It read half past ten. She tore off the sheets from her body and climbed out of bed.

Christine must've noticed her at that point. "Good morning, Jo," she greeted cheerfully, pulling aside the curtains of her bed to give the redhead a smile.

Jovan mustered what she could of a smile. One of her cheeks was hurting for some reason. "Morning, little lady."

She decided to forego her vest and her beret when she began to dress for the day ahead. Opting for a blouse with a high collar instead of her usual button-up shirt, she was left looking far more formal than she usually did during production, but it suited her intents. Jovan grabbed her cloak and a box of matches from the drawer of her nightstand before she slipped out of her room.

Not long after, she found herself entering the chapel. Her eyes darted around the empty space and the walls where paintings of angels and saints were beginning to fade. She felt herself shiver as she went through the doorway. She did say that she wasn't on the best of terms with God right now but that didn't mean that she had abandoned the dead. Jovan didn't get along with God but that was not a reason for her to forget about the deceased.

She quietly made her way to the altar and knelt before it, placing her cloak down by her side. An urge to do the sign of the cross came upon her but she pushed it down ― old habits did die hard, she thought. She pulled out the matchbox and took out one of the matches, lighting it against the side of the box. One by one, she lit a few of the many candles before her. Three of them shone with small, dancing flames when she was done.

There was one for every person that she'd lost. One for her father, one for her mother, and one for her brother.

A sigh escaped her lips and the flames wavered for a second. _I miss you_ , she wanted to say. _I miss you all, and I'm sorry_.

Her heart throbbed with grief. If only they could see her now, how she had fallen so far from where she used to be. What would they say? Would they be dismayed? Would they be happy? If there was one thing she was sure of though, it was that this was not what her father had meant years ago when he said that he wanted to see her working in an opera house.

 _Well, Father. Here I am, working in the world-renowned Opéra Populaire. Just not quite in the way you wished._ A rueful smile crossed her lips. When her father had learned from her music tutor that her limited vocal range would not enable her to follow in his footsteps along with the realization that she had no interest in learning how to play any musical instrument, she'd expected him to disown her at that very moment. But instead, he had bent down on knee and placed a soft kiss on her forehead, a gentle look in his eyes. He didn't mind, he had said. He'd love her all the same and he'd support her in whatever her heart desired to do in this world.

Jovan couldn't help but cry out of happiness then. At the present, she felt moisture gathering in her eyes and she took a deep breath to refrain her tears from spilling. She knew they wouldn't like to see her cry.

So she took in another steadying breath and straightened her shoulders. She would be brave, she would be strong. Not for them but for herself, no matter how far she had fallen from grace. She'd carry on.

But at the moment, she simply needed air. Without another glance at the altar, Jovan grabbed her cloak and marched out of the place.

* * *

Erik found himself needing a change of scenery. The idea of lurking in his lair all day just didn't appeal to him at the moment. Not after his... _encounter_ with Christine in the chapel, no. Suddenly, his home took on a depressing and dreary air that became too much for him to bear. He put on his cloak and raised its hood before he slipped out of one of his numerous passageways and silently made his way to the rooftop.

A cool breeze welcomed him as he stepped out, the air caressing the unmasked side of his face as Erik ran a hand over the foot of one of the statues that stood near the entrance of the rooftop. He sucked in a deep breath, recalling the last time he went out to feel the wind and see the sun at its peak. Visits before sunrise and during the night were quite common but he rarely visited the rooftop during daytime in fear of someone spotting him in broad daylight, but he found himself brave enough to take the risk today. However, he did not dare to stray too far from the statues, making sure he had positioned himself in a spot that easily concealed him from any wandering eyes.

Erik glanced above at the skies and saw clouds clustering together around the sun, various shades of blue gathering to create a haze over the sun. A sigh escaped his lips as he recognized the onset of a downpour. He would just have to enjoy what little time he had left before the rain would start to fall.

He moved a few feet away from the entrance and the statues looming over it, knowing that the people below would start to hurry indoors for shade once they spotted the clouds beginning to darken above them. However, Erik was stunned to see a lone figure by the ledge who had been obscured from his sight by a statue earlier, standing still as if she were a statue herself while the wind blew her short hair in different directions.

Erik stopped in his steps to observe the girl. She had a cloak on her as well that began to billow around her with the assistance of the wind. The last time they had met, it was in the dark. Now, at the very moment, they both stood under the light.

"You shouldn't be here, mademoiselle," he said.

* * *

Jovan felt ice shoot up her veins when she heard a calm, low voice speak behind her. She didn't think that anyone would be able to find her if she chose the rooftop as her hideaway for today. She had longed to visit it again ever since Mateo brought her up there and it had seemed the perfect place to go after her visit to the chapel.

"Apologies, monsieur. I do hope you don't mind sharing the roof, if only for today?" she answered, not bothering to face the stranger behind her as she kept her gaze on the streets below instead.

A brief moment passed in which she received no reply. Jovan gave a silent sigh before she slowly turned to face the newcomer. Her pulse escalated at the dark figure that crossed her line of sight, the shadows of his hood shrouding his face. If it weren't for the way the wind was blowing his cloak, Jovan thought she could've mistaken him for a shadow.

"Who are you?" she asked, her tone growing stiff.

"You know very well who I am, Miss Rousseau."

Jovan turned her full body towards him as she struggled to see any trace of a feature in the darkness of his hood. Her temper flared; was this man mocking her? How was she supposed to recognize him when she didn't even know what he looked like? She took in a steadying breath. Perhaps she did know him, in another way besides knowing his face. Perhaps she simply had to look past his ominous appearance, past the dark cloak and hood and the assured way he carried himself...

 _Wait._

The way he carried himself ― now that rung a bell. The composed and sure way that he stood and the air of authority around him. His presence was a commanding one that always demanded the attention of everyone within his reach. She found herself traveling back to the opening night of _La Albinia_ and, there, recognition finally dawned on her.

"Phantom," she whispered.

She couldn't believe how long it took her before she recognized him. Jovan felt like hitting herself. How come she didn't recognize him by his voice alone when she had singled it out that night as having a richness like no other? Perhaps it was the fact that when he spoke to her for the first time that day, his tone had been so placid and lacked any trace of amusement and sarcasm, a staggering difference from the night they first met. But as he spoke to her now, his voice took on a calm and cool tone.

"Yes. We meet again, mademoiselle."

The Phantom began to take steps towards her, his every move fluid. She wanted to turn away but she found herself rooted in her place. Her heart raced yet Jovan was unable to take her gaze off of him until he stood a mere foot away from her. She couldn't decipher the emotion that was filling her chest ― was it fear or wonder? A mixture of both?

* * *

Erik couldn't be any more confused than he was at the moment. She had stood still in her spot until he had stopped right in front of her, her gaze never leaving him. She wasn't cowering, she didn't even take a step back! Wasn't she afraid? Why wasn't she scared? She stood still in her place but she didn't look defiant. Instead, when he looked into her eyes, he only saw... curiosity.

It was not until that moment did he seriously consider Jovan being sober on the opening night of _La Albinia_. He had thought that her mind had been clouded by alcohol when they had spoken that night but it seemed that he was terribly wrong. She had _not_ been drunk.

Above them, the sky gave a deep rumble.

"Still brave as ever, I see. You haven't run... yet."

"And why would I run?"

"Any sensible person would run at the first sight of a rumored ghost."

" _Rumored_ ghost. But see, you are not a ghost. All I see before me is a man. Even though, once again, you shy away from me and cower in the dark."

Erik wasn't quite sure what to think of her words but he did feel his temper rise in the slightest for some reason he could not identify. Perhaps it was her insinuation that he was a coward for hiding in the dark ― he was unsure. Then the desire to challenge her perspective rose within him. A man? Would she still think him as a man once she saw him? Lightning cracked in the skies overhead, but Jovan's focus on him didn't waver, and that gave him all the courage he needed. Breathing in, he raised his hands and pulled down his hood to reveal himself to her.

"I do not cower, Miss Rousseau. The dark is simply where I belong."

He watched as her eyes widened into saucers, her lips parting in surprise. Green, he thought. Now that he was up close, he saw that her eyes were a shade of green.

He braced himself for a scream, a gasp, a word of hatred. A look of spite. None of those came. For a moment, it was unclear who was more surprised ― Erik, or the girl who stood before him.

"I admit, the mask makes you look spectral, but that is all," she finally said, one brow arched at him.

Erik tried to keep a straight face, stunned. "The last girl who saw me screamed and ran."

"The poor girl must be terrified of masks." She sounded amused, her tone sarcastic.

"It was not only the mask, mademoiselle. I tend to give off a sinister vibe."

Jovan pressed her mouth into a thin line and arched both brows at him. "Sinister? I recall exchanging banter with you the first time we met."

"And now we have a second encounter of which you can brag about, once again. Honestly, we should stop meeting like this. I fear the stories you spread about me might diminish my reputation as the fearsome Opera Ghost."

"Oh, but I haven't told a single soul. I promise not to."

"Thank the heavens then. I'd hate for you to be taken away to an asylum once you begin babbling about conversing with a polite Phantom."

"Polite? Is that what you are?"

"I did say I was a gentleman, didn't I?" A grin tugged at his lips.

"Monsieur, you must be mistaken. A gentleman would introduce himself to a lady," she pleaded dramatically with a slight air of playfulness.

"Mademoiselle, you must have forgotten. I _have_ introduced myself ― I am the Opera Ghost."

There was no sinister edge to his voice when he spoke. Instead, his tone was ripe with amusement and Erik found himself actually enjoying his conversation with the eccentric red-haired stagehand. He was right about his impression of her as well ― sober or not, she had not been fooled into thinking that he was a ghost, nor did she panic at the first sight of him unlike the majority of the opera house's staff. Not only that, she had also called him a man. Not once did she bend to the superstitions or the outlandish stories about the Opera Ghost.

The heavens roared once more. Jovan raised her chin to the sky and Erik mirrored her. He saw that the clouds above them had significantly darkened.

She returned her gaze to him, her tone growing sincere when she spoke.

"I apologize then, monsieur, I'm a fool. To ask a masked man who he is... I realize I can't be guaranteed an honest answer. Not when I don't know which answer he will give ― the name of the mask, or the person behind it. And so far, all you've given me is the name of the mask you wear."

* * *

A single drop of rain landed on her cheek. Jovan focused on the cold sensation on her skin instead of the Phantom's stare on her. She felt a few more drops land on her head as lightning flashed once more, accompanied by the rumble of thunder. She pulled up the hood of her cloak and watched as the Phantom did the same, this time not pulling the entirety of it forward. The outline of his features remained clear despite the dark skies, the details of his own face along with the porcelain mask that covered one side.

Jovan had curiosities about the mask but there would be another time to ask about it. She imagined it would be impolite to ask about it only on their second meeting. Besides, she was perfectly sure that he had his reasons for wearing it. The stark white mask against his skin gave off an unearthly feeling, but it paled in comparison when she saw his eyes. Heavens, _his eyes_. They were differently colored ― one was a brilliant green while the other, the one on the side of his face that was masked, was a warm amber. Both were unyielding in their intensity as they bore into her and she felt like an exposed nerve under their stare. She feared if she stared too long, the fire blazing in them might actually burn her.

She shook her head and tore her gaze away. She didn't want him to feel uncomfortable with her staring too long. He probably felt uncomfortable enough with her last spoken words. The silence grew. A moment passed and still, he only stared back at her, the smirk long gone from his lips. She thought she saw his features change, as if they had softened, but she couldn't be sure. She began to wring her hands beneath her cloak. Was he even going to answer her or was he willing to let them drown in the suffocating silence?

Jovan had had enough of the heavy air around them when she parted her lips to break the silence, but the Phantom beat her to it.

"Erik," he finally answered, his voice barely above a whisper. "My name is Erik."


	6. The Star

Author's Note: As promised, all those who reviewed, followed, and fave'd now have my undying love. Merci beaucoup!

crimsonbloodwitch: I gotta admit something ― I'm not going down that route. It's just that I want this fic to be a breath of fresh air where Erik's relationship with an OC isn't founded on the OC's hidden/undeveloped musical talents which will lead to them having interactions during lessons that Erik will offer to the OC. I'm going to do something different with Erik and Jovan! I can guarantee you though that they will still bond over music, Other than that, I'm glad that you shared with me your expectations regarding this fic!

httplou: I'm glad you noticed, thank you so much! I'm mix-mashing elements from Leroux's and Kay's books, the stage musical, and the 2004 film. Another explanation for Erik's slightly different personality here is that we're not yet in the timeline of the 2004 film. The Erik you're currently seeing here is much younger, in his late twenties to be exact, so I think that calls for a less-temperamental and less-pessimistic version of Erik. However, you will be seeing him slowly develop into the character he is in the 2004 film as time goes by, so just watch out for that!

* * *

( _six_ )

 **THE STAR**

* * *

"Careful, _careful!_ " Gemma Thorpe screamed at the stagehands as they brought onto the rafters above the rolled backdrop. The English painter continued to fret over her work as Jovan and handful of the stagehands rigged the backdrop into place.

Jovan tied the respective knots into their places while Madame Giry tried to soothe Gemma's worry over her work. In no time, the backdrop was put in place and unrolled for the whole theater to see. The sound of clapping bounced off the walls ― it was only the first of many to be painted but it was still progress of which everyone was proud of.

Monsieur Lefèvre proceeded to praise Gemma Thorpe's masterpiece while Monsieur Reyer called for everyone to return to their rehearsals for their newest opera. Mateo and a new stagehand, Ilyes, rushed towards Jovan who stood backstage.

"You know how the pulley system works now, do you?" Mateo asked her.

"Absolutely not." Jovan feigned shock.

"Whatever, you loony. I'll be assisting Ilyes in setting up the cloud carvings."

"Thorpe's done painting them already?" she asked.

Ilyes reached into the sack he hauled beside him and pulled out a flat piece of wood carved into the shape of a cloud, painted blue with swirls. Jovan gave another nod and waved them away with a small smile. "I'll keep an eye on you two."

A few minutes later after setting up, Ilyes hung suspended in the air, tying and hanging the cloud carvings that were handed to him by Mateo while Jovan guarded the ropes and the pulley system that carried Ilyes. Jovan leaned against the railings in the darkness of the rafters as she watched Mateo, from the catwalk, hand Ilyes one of the smaller pieces of wood. Boredom was slowly overtaking her, evident by the way she was drumming her fingers against the wood of the railings.

"Restless, aren't we?" a voice whispered from the darkness behind her. Jovan was quick to recognize the voice and refrained herself from glancing behind her shoulder, reminding herself that it was only Erik, a gentleman who went by the moniker Opera Ghost, but whom she personally knew to be perfectly human. Slowly, she gave a nod of her head.

She heard him gave a hum, making it sound as if he were impressed with her self-control. The sound sent chills down Jovan's spine but she couldn't help but also feel pleased. After all, she knew that if she began stealing glances behind her back when Erik would only be hiding in the dark, it would look like as if she were losing her mind when no one else would be able to see anyone behind her.

"The same condition plagues me, unfortunately," he told her, sounding mopey. "Would you like to hear a story, mademoiselle?"

Jovan didn't know how to respond. She was stupefied by his words. Tell her a story? Since when did the Phantom go to converse with the stagehands when he was bored?

On the catwalk, Mateo shouted at her to move Ilyes a few feet to the right. Jovan made the requested adjustments until the stagehand's desired position was achieved. Ilyes shot her a thumbs up from his new spot.

"Hum for yes, snap your fingers for no," the Phantom's voice spoke behind her. Jovan didn't even hesitate when she gave a soft hum. After all, curiosity was one of her gravest sins.

His voice took on an ethereal quality as he began to tell his tale, the words slipping out of his mouth like silk.

"Our story begins with two brothers, the Emperor and the Devil, and a woman, the Star. These two brothers were very powerful men who held the world in their hands, but, even then, even with a thousand men at their feet, they knew that something was missing from their lives. Something that no jewels or no amount of gold could buy. The love of a woman."

Jovan found it easy to lose herself in his story. With his voice alone, the pictures that he painted in her head were exquisite. The music from the orchestra and the maestro's instructions quickly faded to the background as Erik's voice claimed every bit of her attention. Slowly, her hands stopped drumming against the wood as they came to rest by her side.

"Until, one day, they both stumbled upon a woman. A painter, an artist who expressed herself with the colors that surrounded her. The Star. Unfortunately, for the two brothers, they both fell in love with her at the same time. So what they did was they both approached the Star at the same moment and asked her to choose between the two of them."

In the corner of her eye, Jovan saw Mateo gesture for her to adjust the ropes again and she immediately obeyed in order to let Erik resume his story.

"Now, the problem with the woman was that a creative block had been tormenting her for months ― do you perhaps find yourself relating to her plight?"

A small smile of amusement crossed Jovan's lips as she gave a hum.

"I do too, on some days. As I was saying, the Star was low on inspiration and was in dire need of a muse. For no particular reason. however, she chose to court the Emperor first. Unfortunately, the Emperor proved to be too busy to become the lover she needed. He showered her with gifts and riches but these were things that she had no need of. What she needed was a fire from what she had expected to be a passionate relationship. Sadly, the Emperor failed to reach her expectations and it was not long before their courtship ended.

"It was then that she took the Devil as her lover next. And such an ardent courtship that it was. However, as fast as the flames of passion had taken over her, they also quickly wore her out, leaving her desiring for something more than the fervent nights that she shared with the Devil. The Star could see now that both brothers were at the opposite ends of the spectrum, extremes that could not provide her with the balance that she wanted in a lover. On one night, however, she was able to find a solution to her dilemma."

Jovan was unable to stop herself when stole a glance behind her shoulder, a crooked smile resting on her lips. In the dark, she made out the outline of Erik's features and the mask on his face, a stunned look on his face as he met her gaze.

"I can tell this isn't going to end well," she whispered.

"You'll never know how this story ends if you interrupt me _one more time_ ," he answered. "Now, be as you were before someone sees you talking to the shadows. They might think you mad."

A smirk curved her lips as she obeyed him, training her gaze back at Mateo and Ilyes as they continued with hanging the cloud carvings.

"It was on one night that the Star decided to have both brothers as her lovers at once, without the other knowing. It was in this way that she was finally able to find the relationship that she'd always dreamed of. Not only that, but she was also able to resume painting again now that she had two muses to fuel her imagination. She was able to keep this 'solution' of hers a secret for some time but, of course, no secret can forever stay in the dark. The Emperor and the Devil soon learned of the Star's deceit, but it was not at her that they directed their anger at, but at each other.

"Thus did the two brothers find a reason to wage war against each other. Some battles were won, some were lost, but in the end, neither won the war. The Emperor managed to secure a part of his brother's realm but it would still never be enough for him. The Devil relished in the pleasure of slaughtering his brother's soldiers but the satisfaction wouldn't last long, it never did."

Erik paused. Jovan heard him release a sigh behind her. Mateo once again gestured for her to adjust the ropes and she tinkered with the pulley system, but her focus remained on the Phantom behind her and the story he was telling. But a moment passed and he was still silent. Jovan chewed on her lip before deciding to speak.

"What happened next?" she whispered. "What happened to the Star?"

She felt his piercing gaze land on her and she quietly waited for his response. Was this a habit of his? Letting the silence linger until it became too much to bear?

He cleared his throat. "The chapel. An hour before midnight. Make sure no one follows you."

Jovan's eyebrows creased in confusion. She was about to shoot a question when she felt his presence leave the darkness. She turned to look behind her to make sure of his absence, and she saw that it was only the shadows that lingered. She heard Mateo request her to move Ilyes again. Silently, she moved as she ignored the dismay that burned up inside her.

Did that just really happen?


	7. Rendezvous

Author's Note: Something just occurred to me regarding the title of this fic. What if Erik and Jovan did begin to bond over arson? "Wanna burn that building down?" "Yeah, man, sure. Chandelier crash or kitchen explosion?" On another note, I'd just like to point something out, also because httplou asked about it in an earlier review, that the Erik you're currently seeing here is in his mid/late twenties to be exact.

* * *

( _seven_ )

 **RENDEZVOUS**

* * *

An hour after dinner, everyone had either gone home, returned to their dormitories to take a nap, or gone to the baths. Everyone had retired for the day and no one else had other plans to go anywhere save for their beds at the end of the day. Well, everyone save for Christine.

Besides Jovan, Christine was the only other person in the room who wasn't dressed for bed. She was fixing her hair with a pale blue ribbon when Maeva sat up from her bed across Jovan's and called out to the younger ballerina.

"You keep leaving at this hour at the same time every week. Where in the world does a little girl like you have to go at this time?" she asked, her tone wary.

Christine glanced at her, pressing her lips into a thin line. "I go to the chapel."

"To the chapel? To do what?"

From the bed across Christine's, Tess gave a groan. "You did not just ask that. What else can you do in a chapel besides pray?"

Jovan looked up from the still blank papers on her lap. "You haven't been drinking again, have you?" she asked Maeva.

At this, Maeva gave the redhead a withering stare. "At least I still have even just a bit of my reputation intact. Yours however, it's all gone down the gutter, darling."

Jovan tried to ignore the ballerina's scathing remark for the sake of keeping her temper in check. She bit her tongue to prevent herself from spitting out a similar comment, not wanting to start a fight that could ruin her day. Ever since Hector got injured the night he decided to tell them a tale about the Phantom, which resulted in him being dismissed, she frequently found herself at the receiving end of Maeva's anger. It probably had something to do with the fact that because of the story she told about the Opera Ghost on the night of the incident, per the stagehand's request, Hector had launched into his monologue about the Phantom's grotesque appearance. Almost everyone employed in the opera house immediately assumed that the incident was the result of the Opera Ghost's wrath upon hearing Hector's description of him. Somehow, Maeva put the blame on Jovan for Hector's dismissal after the incident.

"Um, I have to go," Christine excused herself before slipping out of the dormitory. Jovan still felt Maeva's heated gaze on her as she returned her blank papers into her chest where they would remain out of sight.

The ballerina opened her mouth to let out another biting comment when the door opened and Elea slipped in, her mahogany locks dripping wet from just finishing a bath. She immediately sensed the tension in the room and narrowed her eyes at the girls inside.

"Quit it, whatever it is that you have going on here," she scolded them but was careful to keep her tone light.

Maeva rolled her eyes before drawing her curtains to obscure herself from sight.

* * *

 _The chapel. An hour before midnight. Make sure no one follows you._

The Phantom's words looped in her head like a broken record as Jovan waited for the hours to tick by. At one point, Elea began to bother her about changing out of her work clothes to which Jovan said that she'd wander around at a later hour to search for inspiration for writing, which was why she refused to change just yet. To her surprise, Elea believed her excuse without any questions, but that could be just because she was simply too tired to argue. Besides, Jovan had long proven that she was capable of protecting herself. On another note too, her excuse was actually something she had done on some previous nights when sleep refused to come to her.

Finally, the hands of the clock read eleven o'clock. Jovan quietly rose out of her bed, put on a new shirt, and laced on her boots before she slipped out of the room as quietly as she could. She left her vest unbuttoned and carried her matchbox in her pocket. She honestly did not know what to expect as she made her way to the chapel. She didn't even know if she was thinking rationally. She had only followed Erik's words on a whim and out of curiosity. Who knew if the man was truly to be trusted? Other than the banter they exchanged, she had no indication of what truly lied behind the mask and the sobriquet.

She was being foolish and she knew it.

She arrived at the chapel in no time. Darkness covered every inch of the place, and while her eyesight had adapted well to the dark, that didn't mean that she was unwilling to use candles. That way, there'd be no reason for her to strain her vision. Jovan made her way to the altar and lit one of the candles before she took it.

A masked face greeted her in the dark the moment she turned away from the altar with the candle in her hand. A curse left her lips before she clasped her hand over her mouth. It felt as if her heart would jump out of her chest at any second.

"I didn't think you were capable of speaking such foul words," he taunted.

"You frightened me, you lunatic!"

"I didn't think you were capable of being frightened either, not after your little show during our first encounter."

"I assure you, that was not a show. You don't scare me." Jovan didn't know how many times she had to reassure him of this. She gave a huff.

"I'm glad to be reminded, mademoiselle."

With that, Jovan saw that he had began to pace around the chapel. She noticed that he was wearing his cloak along with a wide-brimmed hat. He looked like he had dressed for a formal meeting, which was absolutely not what they were having right now. What should this encounter be called even? Jovan didn't have a clue and decided not to stress about it. Instead, she turned back to the altar and proceeded to light every single candle. The soft light cast an eerie glow over the walls where angels and saints stood as witnesses to their late-night meeting.

"You're wasting candles," he grumbled.

"Well, perhaps if they installed a few lamps in here..." Jovan retorted as she finished lighting the candles. She turned back to the Phantom to see him standing still as a statue at the center of the room.

"I didn't think you'd come." The words slipped from her mouth before she could stop herself.

"Neither did I," was his casual reply. "But you must be completely out of your mind to have agreed to rendezvous with the Opera Ghost an hour before midnight just to hear the ending to a story."

"Another achievement for me to brag about _again_ , thank you very much. Besides, curiosity is my gravest sin."

"Mademoiselle, have you ever heard of curiosity killing the cat?"

"Yes, and satisfaction brought it back to life," Jovan remarked, recalling Mateo's words from months ago. "Do complete the quote."

"And are you satisfied now?" His face remained blank.

"No, you haven't told me the ending to your little tale yet."

A moment of silence came upon them. Jovan felt like rolling her eyes again but she'd been doing that far too frequently these days. She broke the silence before it could go on any further.

"You don't have an ending, do you?"

"May I ask how you came to that assumption?" He arched a brow despite sounding genuinely curious.

"It's not an assumption, it's a presumption."

"Tell me."

"You thought up of your story on the spot out of boredom. Of course, you were already bored long before you came to me ― you probably came to me because you were indeed bored. Your story included a painter because Gemma Thorpe, our painter, happened to be present at the very moment you came to me. Not to forget, we did just finish rigging her backdrop into place. When you found yourself unable to find a proper ending to your story, you asked that I meet you here instead to finish the story. That way, you would have some time to yourself to be able to think up of an ending. But, alas, you show up here fruitless."

"...Is that what you've been thinking of prior to this meeting of ours?"

Jovan shrugged. "Perhaps. Take a guess."

A low chuckle came from him. "Brava, brava. But to tell you the ending to my little story isn't the only reason why I asked to meet you tonight."

"Why not?" A chill traveled down her spine at his words as she refrained herself from jumping to conclusions.

"I've come to talk about your current predicament."

"Predicament? I'm doing perfectly fine right now, if you've failed to notice."

"Mademoiselle, you may jest with me, but never make the mistake of taking me for a fool."

"I didn't, I never did," Jovan answered, hoping she sounded honest enough. Never did it once cross her mind to underestimate the man's intellectual capacity nor did she plan on ever doing so. If she did lie, it was only to save her own skin without any intent of getting mere pleasure from the act.

The air grew cold.

Erik gave a hum but she was unable to detect the emotion in it. His tone grew stiff. "There's no use in lying to me, Miss Rousseau. It would simply be best for you to answer me truthfully unless you prefer I progress to desperate measures."

All the candles went out at the same second the entrance to the chapel was shut off. A new moon was shining that night and nothing but pure darkness could be seen outside. Jovan was trapped in the dark.

A stream of fear began to swallow her steadily. She felt herself stiffen, her hands growing cold and her chest tightening. She was not expecting this sudden and staggering change of attitude towards her and it frightened her, terribly so. This was an interrogation, she realized. He had lured her into a trap and she fallen straight into it.

She gave a sharp exhale, her throat constricting. "Why ― why me? I didn't do anything wrong," she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

"It's not a question of what you did but, rather, what you will do, mademoiselle." He took a step towards her and her blood ran cold.

"See, I refuse to believe that Monsieur Lefèvre and Madame Giry would simply allow you to trot around as a stagehand when it is hardly a job fit for a woman. You must've struck some kind of bargain with them to allow you to work as such. For what reason though, I wonder? However, there is also the possibility that you're doing your best to pass as a man, what with your terrible haircut and the way you dress as one. I hardly believe such a plan would work though ― an ignoramus does not run this opera house, I made sure of that. And Madame Giry is the most perceptive person I've come across. Besides, you're not exactly pretending as well, are you? You wear a man's clothes, but you certainly don't act like one. Those trousers you wear are only doing your hips a favor and the stagehands don't seem short of supply of the taunts they throw at you. But the most obvious clue must be the fact that you sleep in a room with five other girls. So pretending to be a man is definitely out of the question."

Jovan's mouth fell open. Was this his way of getting back at her after her earlier deduction about the ending of his story? Because that was what it sounded to her right at the moment. At least, the irrational part of her. Her rational side was screaming at her to find out where she had gone wrong in her facade and how Erik had even thought up of the deductions that he had just told her.

"You read me like I was some _open book_ ―" she scoffed with disbelief, unable to find the next words. Her tone was acid. At that point, she just couldn't help but feel resentment towards the Phantom. "Go on. Just go ahead and tell me what your theory is as to why I'm here the way I am," she seethed.

He gave a tired sigh. A beat passed. She heard the sound of a match striking against sandpaper before a lone candle was lit in the dark. Erik held it below his chin, casting a sinister, golden haze over him. Jovan found herself feeling grateful for what little light was granted to the dark room.

"I don't mean to scare you, mademoiselle, but, if you were in my place, you'd be vexed with unease too. Whether the manager and the staff like it or not, the Opéra Populaire is under my protection and I would see it flourish under my watch. Which means that at the first sight of anything suspicious, I am compelled to attend to it."

Understanding began to dawn on Jovan despite her dread. She could see where he was coming from and she even felt a stab of guilt after hearing his explanation ― she didn't mean to cause him distress. She also couldn't help but feel that her dauntless approach towards him during their previous encounters only fueled his suspicions about her. Come to think of it, he'd never thought to interrogate her until she began speaking to him.

"Truly, Miss Rousseau. What is the purpose of your presence here?"

"I'm hiding," she answered truthfully, seeing no use in lying to him.

"From?"

"Someone terrible out there who is after me for all the wrong reasons."

"Be more specific," he snapped.

At this, Jovan simply had to draw the line. She gave a shake of her head as she held his intense gaze. He narrowed his eyes in return and gave a low snarl. Jovan gave a glare with the same fire that burned in his eyes.

"Monsieur, I understand where you are coming from, I truly do. But I assure you that I did not come here to spy on you or to cause any trouble. I am simply here for my own safety. Yes, it's not a secret that I am a woman with a job for which many look down at me for, but that is the price I have to pay in exchange for refuge at the Opéra Populaire. When I came to Monsieur Lefèvre and Madame Giry for help, I did not need to bribe them. The name of my father and the name of the person after me were enough to persuade them to grant me sanctuary in this opera house. I asked for the job of a stagehand because I lacked any skills in the other departments, and I needed a job that kept me out of sight."

Jovan began to feel tears gathering in her eyes. It felt as if she had just taken off a heavy weight from her chest, but at the same time, an overwhelming sense of helplessness washed over her. She quickly switched her gaze to the ceiling to prevent her tears from spilling. She longed for this meeting of their to be over. Did he believe everything she just said? Her chest tightened; Jovan hoped so.

His tone grew mild when he spoke. "I understand."

 _No, you don't_ , Jovan thought bitterly.

It was as simple as that. The candle in his hand went out and for brief moment, Jovan was surrounded by darkness again, until the entrance to the chapel was reopened. Whatever dim light awaited in the corridor infiltrated the chapel. Erik was nowhere to be seen as he hid himself in the shadows.

"I apologize, Miss Rousseau. But desperate times warrant desperate measures. And I am a cautious man."

But Jovan was barely listening ― she was too disheartened to pay any more attention to him. She didn't even bother to look for Erik in the room before she stormed out of the chapel without another word.

* * *

Author's Note: What? You didn't all think that it was just gonna be fluff throughout, did you? Also, about Maeva's comment about Jovan's reputation having "gone down the gutter," Jovan doesn't exactly have the best of reputations at the moment, not when she dresses inappropriately for the time period and the fact that she works as a stagehand which results in a lot of people looking down on her. If Erik's suspicion about Jovan doesn't make sense, I ought to point it out right now that in this fic, I'm utilizing Erik's history as an assassin, making him sort of paranoid about spies and such. Don't forget to leave a review!


	8. The Emperor

Author's Note: I don't know about you guys, but whenever I write for this story, Ramin Karimloo's version of the Phantom is the one that always pops into my mind during Erik's scenes (I see Gerard Butler too, but only, like, 30% of the time). There's a reason why I don't go into too much detail when describing Erik in my story and that's so you guys can imagine whichever version of the Phantom you prefer. Whether you prefer Ramin, like me, or Gerard Butler, Hugh Panaro, or Ben Lewis for all I know, it's perfectly fine! Which got me curious ― which version of Erik do you see in my story?

httplou: We're the same with Ramin! Hmm, foreshadowing? I'm actually a big fan of doing that in my stories, but just keep reading to find out if you're correct! And check out that chapter title; yep!

* * *

( _eight_ )

 **THE EMPEROR**

* * *

" _Miss Rousseau!_ You missed your cue!" Monsieur Reyer's voice erupted from below. "Get your head out of the clouds!"

"I apologize, maestro! It won't happen again!"

Jovan winced as she watched the chorus members groan before they went back to their previous places. Monsieur Reyer gestured for them to restart the scene before he gave Jovan a scathing glare for good measure. Though her stay at the opera house was nearing half a year, she felt like a newcomer amid the rest of the cast and crew at that very moment. This was her first mistake ever since she arrived and it wounded her so.

For the remainder of the day, Jovan did her best to not let her thoughts stray far from the ongoing rehearsals.

She had been successful until she saw Madame Giry emerge from backstage as she brought a stop to the current dance number. In her hands, she held an envelope bearing an all too familiar red insignia. The wax skull looked as sinister as the last time Jovan saw its maker, over a month ago in the dark chapel. She gave an involuntary shiver when she found her thoughts drifting back to the same person who had caused her to lose her focus and miss her cue earlier.

Everyone immediately stopped whatever they were doing when the ballet headmistress announced her presence and raised the letter for everyone to see. A chorus of complaints and groans broke out among the staff of the Opéra Populaire.

"What is it this time?" someone whined.

"He doesn't run this damn show!" another cried out.

Madame Giry silenced the crowd before she snapped the wax seal and took out the letter.

"My dear mesdames and messieurs," she began to read the letter. "It has come to my attention of several blunders that must be immediately fixed. Our lead soprano, Mademoiselle Gregoire, must make better of her dramatics if she wishes to last this season. Her role calls for an appeal which she seems to lack these days. The dance number in Act Two must be perfected lest the whole opera be affected. Emmy and Maeva are a beat too late, the latter of which must immediately cease her enslavement to alcoholic beverages..."

Madame Giry proceeded to read, one by one, the comments that the Opera Ghost had on almost every single dancer. Even Elea's name was mentioned at one point. Jovan couldn't believe how the Phantom could be so thorough with his observations, something that she could give him credit for.

"...A word for Monsieur Aubert ― the strings of his cello are in dire need of replacement, preferably as soon as possible. The same goes for Madame Renard's violin. The stagehands are far better off sober, and Sacha Gaudin must learn to value his tasks above his... carnal conquests if he wishes to keep his job. A note to Miss Rousseau, to not let her mind wander too far. Your most humble and obedient servant, Opera Ghost."

The second the last word was uttered by the ballet headmistress, protests began to burst from the staff as chaos unfolded below. Lise Gregoire was making a fuss and looked like she was about to cry, in which Monsieur Lefèvre was quick to approach her side, ready to grovel before her if she was somehow thinking of leaving at that very second ― it had been the fourth time that the Opera Ghost had spoken about her acting. The ballet rats were scolding each other and there were those who were trying to defend themselves to no success. Sacha Gaudin looked like he was about to start a fight, and none of Monsieur Reyer's rebukes to calm him were reaching his ears.

"Who does this _wretch_ think he is―" Sacha fumed as he began to scour the rafters as if in search of the Opera Ghost.

"Calm yourself, man!" the lead stagehand, Amir Vacher, scolded him.

"SHOW YOURSELF, YOU BRUTE!"

As for Jovan, she was quick to let the Phantom's comment about her slide. At best, he was simply taunting her in his usual manner. At worst, he was still suspicious of her, but that hardly seemed likely anymore, not after he had apologized. She didn't care either way, but she told herself that this would be the first and last time that her name would be mentioned in any one of his letters.

Jovan closed her eyes as Sacha gave another shout of frustration. This was the first time that he got called out by the Opera Ghost and he was _not_ taking it well. He continued in his tirade as he walked towards the center of the catwalk, screaming for the Opera Ghost to fight him in a match. None of the other stagehands knew whether he was sober or not. The lead stagehand was struggling to hold back the infuriated man even with help from the rest of the stagehands.

If Sacha was wise, he would let this slide and go on as if nothing had happened, given that he would follow the Opera Ghost's wishes. But it didn't look like that that was going to be the case. Jovan opened her eyes. She saw that below, Emmy had began to sob while one ballet rat had stormed off. Monsieur Aubert was complaining about something to Monsieur Reyer. Jovan couldn't remember the last time that they had received a letter from the Phantom that caused this much distress.

Maybe it was just their exhaustion, or maybe they were all just terrible sports.

In the middle of the catwalk, every single one of the stagehands who'd been situated in the rafters had now gathered around Sacha in an attempt to talk some sense in him. Well, everyone except for Jovan ― there was no way that she was going a foot near Sacha. In fact, she always kept a good distance from majority of the stagehands. She was left alone on one side of the rafters to watch the spectacle of havoc until she felt a presence appear next to her.

"Lovely morning, isn't it?" the Phantom breathed out.

"Your definition of 'lovely' is depraved." Jovan gave him a jaded glance and noticed instantly that his face had a sinister detail to it, although she had a feeling that his malice was not directed towards her.

"Just another one of my charming aspects," he coolly answered.

She gave a shake of her head. The gall he had to casually converse with her like this when their last encounter had ended on such a sour note! Not to forget, that last meeting of theirs had happened over a month ago, after which they had absolutely no contact with each other. Jovan wanted to resent him further for it but she just couldn't find it in herself to do so (maybe she was just tired as well). After all, his little interrogation with her was not without a justified reason, and the Phantom seemed to be a person who liked to keep his distance from time to time.

"Miss Rousseau, you must know by now that I trust in you to keep your silence after every time we cross paths. I hope this instance won't be any different."

Jovan's brows furrowed in confusion. "Why would it be?"

"Because of what I am about to do."

Without a second to waste, Erik climbed up to the beams above and vanished out of sight. Jovan searched for him in vain but even in broad daylight, he was nowhere to be found. If there was something he was good at, it had to be blending in with the shadows. Not a second after the thought entered her mind, Jovan finally saw what he meant.

The ropes holding the backdrop came undone and the large canvas came crashing down on the stage.

Jovan found herself rushing near the railings to see what would happen next, her hands wrapping tight around the wood until her knuckles turned white. She saw the backdrop hit an unoccupied space of the stage, but the sound of its impact was enough to pull everyone out of their own dilemmas. A few frightened screams escaped from the ballet corps but other than that, the incident had effectively silenced everyone, including the raging Sacha. She saw that no one was harmed. She gave a sigh of relief.

"Miss Rousseau!" the maestro called for her again, his face red with anger. "For God's sake, woman―"

"Monsieur, I swear on my uncle's grave that I was not at my post!"

Jovan was stunned at the lie that left her lips. She had even mentioned her uncle. The words left a bitter taste in her mouth but it had been on instinct, to protect herself. She couldn't help but feel her temper flare at Erik. Didn't he stop to think of her before he went on to create this mess? Why on Earth would he even do such an unnecessary thing?

Monsieur Reyer simply gave her a funny look before he switched his attention to the fallen backdrop. Monsieur Lefèvre looked like he going to burst into tears at any moment while Madame Giry shot the backdrop a venomous glare. Jovan was glad that Gemma Thorpe had not been around to witness the disaster that had befallen her work ― she would've thrown a fit.

She felt someone softly land at her side, and Jovan gritted her teeth. Erik was quick to obscure himself in the shadows as he returned to his spot by her side. She saw that he looked quite pleased with himself, and Jovan found herself wanting nothing more than to punch the smug look off his face, but she knew that that was a line she could never cross.

"What in the Devil's name was that?" she quietly hissed and, before she could stop herself, she found her hand giving him a shove. He quickly caught her wrist before she could touch him and he glanced at her with a dangerous glint in his eyes, his long fingers wrapped tight around her wrist.

Jovan swallowed as she met his eyes. A fire blazed in them that made the amber and green of his gaze stand out in stark contrast to the white of his mask. His grip on her wrist was iron and it took every ounce of her control to not whimper in pain. Instead, she held his stare, standing her ground against the Opera Ghost.

"To remind everyone of where their places are, and to show them who truly runs this theater. Too often they forget that without my criticisms, they would never have gotten this far," he sneered before his grip on her loosened. The moment it did, she pulled her wrist away and massaged the spot where he had held her.

She tried to keep a snarl from creeping into her voice when she spoke. "They all look like they're going to come apart, Erik."

A smirk pulled at his lips. "Welcome to my kingdom, Miss Rousseau."


	9. Muse Of Mine

Author's Note: Thank you so, so much to those who reviewed and followed! Fun fact regarding the last chapter ― Erik's name means 'eternal ruler' as his name is a combination of ei (ever, always) and ríkr (ruler, king). Woah, right? Anyway, so we all know that Erik's got a conceited ass too, right? God knows that one of the reasons he loves being the Opera Ghost is because of the attention he gets from everyone. Don't forget to leave a review!

* * *

( _nine_ )

 **MUSE OF MINE**

* * *

 _La beauté de Mount Annes_ was another success for the Opéra Populaire despite the setbacks and drama that had occurred during production. It became a cause for celebration after four months of a hectic production, and Jovan had foolishly agreed during the celebration after opening night to Elea's 'prize' of being able to choose the redhead's outfits for the whole week-long break that would follow. In exchange, Elea agreed to stay for the week to accompany Jovan.

Jovan was beginning to regret her ridiculous bargain with Elea. She vaguely recalled agreeing only because she'd had a bottle of whiskey that night that clouded her judgement, something that her friend clearly took advantage of. It was her first time to get drunk ever since her arrival at the opera house. Jovan groaned in her bed as Elea finished rummaging through her chest at the foot of her bed.

"I am never drinking again," she whined, burrowing deeper beneath the sheets that covered her. She couldn't even remember why the idea of getting drunk had appealed to her on that night.

"Get up and stop moping. We had an agreement," Elea answered as she pulled away the curtains of Jovan's bed. She tore away the blankets from the redhead.

"For f― Elea, it's cold!" Jovan protested.

"Watch your mouth, young lady. I will not have you cussing like a sailor when I have you wearing appropriate clothes."

"Just _please_ , not a corset."

"No, you brat! We had an agreement," Elea scoffed before raising up a black walking skirt for Jovan to see. "See? It's not so bad."

"Oh, that's comforting."

"Get out of bed, Jo."

"I don't even see the point ― more than half of the staff aren't even here to see me wearing that―"

"That doesn't matter! I've had enough of you cross-dressing like some uncultured prat!"

"Well, I can't exactly work in the rafters in dress, can I?" Jovan gave a scoff.

"Look, all I want is for you to gain even just a little bit of respect from the imbeciles trotting around here. Get. _Up._ "

Elea assisted Jovan with lacing the corset while the redhead struggled to adjust to the undergarment. After spending eight months wearing nothing but a mere binder under her work clothes, Jovan had grown unused to the more restricting form of a corset. She gasped as Elea finished lacing it up.

"It's too tight," Jovan whimpered.

"No, it's not, you ninny. You act as if you've never worn one before."

"It's been eight months since I last wore one."

Jovan was grateful that Elea chose to disregard her dresses in favor of a white button-up blouse along with the black walking skirt she'd shown her earlier. She felt like a doll as Elea began to work on her hair, her red tresses now hanging a bit past her shoulders. Elea deftly styled her locks into a half up-do and even tried to add a diamond-studded clip. Jovan refused it, seeing as it wasn't hers and she feared that would only lose it.

Elea gave a smirk of satisfaction at her 'work' when she was done.

"Now you look like a lady," she remarked smugly.

* * *

"Ayesha, darling. I can hardly compose any music with you causing such a racket," Erik gently chided the Siamese cat lying across the far divan. She merely gave a lazy blink of her eyes before turning away from her master. Erik began to wonder if he was spoiling her too much, the candlelight catching in the small white gems that hung from the necklace around the feline's neck.

He ran a hand through his hair as he stood from his bench. He'd tried playing on his organ but nothing new would come to him. His fingers would dance across the keys but only old tunes would resound in his lair. He was out of ideas, he had no muse to inspire him. Nothing exciting had happened to him ever since he cut the backdrop to stop the fuming stagehand Sacha, and that had been over two months ago.

Erik walked towards the divan where Ayesha lay, careful in his steps to avoid the numerous papers that littered the floor of his lair. Forgotten lyrics and unfinished compositions they were, his own work that he discarded once it became apparent that he had no idea where to go with them or how to finish them. Erik was a fickle man, with a mercurial mood that Antoinette loved to poke at from time to time. The papers on the floor were proof of his nature.

He knelt before the divan upon nearing it and reached out to scratch below the cat's chin. She gave a pleased purr. If only Ayesha proved to be a more amusing companion then Erik wouldn't have to look for a muse elsewhere. But, alas, a cat just wasn't the most excitable companion to have around. He adored her, even after the first months when they arrived from Persia where she was initially spiteful towards him, but he knew very well that she was just not enough to fill the hole in his chest.

Whether or not Erik admitted it, he craved for a human connection outside of his home. And though he and Antoinette acknowledged the fact that they were more than acquaintances, they weren't exactly the closest of friends either. From time to time, the ballet headmistress would just suddenly barge into his home out of anger with another of his 'pranks.' He didn't appreciate her intruding for the most part, and he knew that she wasn't pleased with him either for wreaking havoc in the theater above. As a result, whatever they had between the two of them had grown into more of an off-key partnership. Still, he could not deny that he did care for the stern woman, especially after all that she had done for him.

Erik stroked Ayesha's chin one last time before he stood to his feet. A quiet sigh escaped him. But how could he ever forge a connection with the world outside when he was surrounded by superstitious fools who ran away at the sight of him? He walked over to the nearest mirror and smoothed out any creases on his waistcoat and shirt. Heavens, opera people were just too gullible for their own good. When rumors about a ghost haunting the halls and walls began to circulate not long after he made his home in the bowels of the opera house, Erik just couldn't help himself and fanned the flames himself to add some plausibility to the stories about him. Until, eventually, he became the very character that was the subject of many tales. And he'd been having fun ever since then.

The Phantom. Opéra Populaire's infamous resident ghost. A rumored poltergeist, a rumored monster, a rumored madman. Indeed, Erik was many things.

But to one other person (Antoinette was the other one), he was simply a man and nothing else. He made up his mind not long after to give that certain person a visit. He was in the mood for jesting, their encounter in the chapel long abandoned at the back of his mind.

He decided to forego his usual cloak and his hat this time as he put on a cloak with dark red lining instead. He fixed the similarly colored cravat on his neck before he set off.

Erik navigated his way through the darkness of his passageways with much ease. After all, he knew these halls like the back of his hand long before they were actually created. He'd had months to memorize these tunnels when he made his _revisions_ with the blueprints of the Palais Garnier, before it was reconstructed as the Opéra Populaire. He effortlessly avoided the numerous traps hidden throughout the labyrinth of tunnels as he neared the surface, a smirk tugging at his lips at his own ingenuity. No one else would ever know these halls better than he did. Even Antoinette only used a few of the passageways of which she knew where to avoid his traps. Erik was quite sure that even after all this time, she still failed to grasp just how massive and intricate the maze was that hid within the Opéra Populaire. And, of course, he had designed every single part of it.

He considered slipping through the two-way wall mirror in the dormitory Jovan shared with five other girls but he thought better of it, unaware of who might be occupying the room at the moment. To be honest, he didn't even know where to start looking for her. Would she be in her room? Backstage? On the rooftop? The chapel?

He decided to check the chapel first, seeing as it was probably one of the most desolate places within the opera house. It was as good as any place to start. He had all day to waste in his search for the red-haired stagehand anyway; it was not like Erik had anything better to do.

He found that he was in for a surprise when he arrived at the chapel. A gap in the walls provided him with a complete view of the chapel's interior. Peeking through it, he saw a a feminine figure positioned before the altar. Erik couldn't believe his luck. He found himself stupefied at the sight of the person. She was wearing a blouse and a skirt. If it weren't for her flaming red hair, Erik would have never believed that it was Jovan that he was seeing right now.

He felt himself falter for a second. And what could have possibly possessed her on this particular day that drove her to actually dress like a lady? Even her hair was fixed! Erik narrowed his eyes. This didn't have anything to do with his scathing remarks when he interrogated her before, did it? He did say a comment or two about her appearance and the way she dressed, and something about her hips as well... _Good God_.

There was only one way to get the answers to his questions. Erik felt for a certain part of the wall that was not quite aligned with the rest, then pressed on it when he found it. The wall shielding him shifted before it quietly slid away. He stepped into the chapel as the tunnel behind him closed without a sound.

The very thought of Jovan in the chapel puzzled him. Didn't she say before that she didn't believe in God? Or something along the lines of that? He noticed that before her, only three of the candles were lit. In her hands, she held a piece of parchment. Her lips moved but no sound slipped from them. Her skirt was a black pool around her as she sat on the ground.

She looked so at peace in deep reverence, a tranquil air to her that contrasted sharply to the last time Erik had spoken to her. The light filtering through the glass stained window only added an ethereal detail to her, soft colors painting the white of her blouse and her pale skin. Erik felt a sudden urge to paint ― she would've made for a lovely subject for a portrait at that very moment.

And her hair. Heavens, _her hair._ Red was Erik's favorite color, but something about seeing her red tresses cascading down her neck made him want to run his fingers through them. Now that she was wearing her hair down, with only a few locks being held up by a few pins, he could clearly see that her hair had grown since he last saw her up close. They now reached a bit past her shoulders.

Erik cleared his throat to make his presence known. Jovan flinched and her grip on the paper tightened, causing the edges to crumple. He watched as she frantically searched the room for him until her astute gaze landed on him. Her soft expression shifted into an unreadable facade.

"You again," she remarked dryly.

"A keen observation, mademoiselle," Erik replied. "And may I ask what force compelled you on this day to dress appropriately for once?"

"You have a sharp eye, monsieur," came her sarcastic response. She returned her gaze to the paper in her hands. "But a gentleman would not ask about a lady's appearance. Nor would a gentleman interrupt a lady during her prayers."

"Prayers? And I thought you didn't get along with God, Miss Rousseau."

"And where in the world did you get that idea?"

"Oh, didn't you know? In my opera house, walls have ears and doors have eyes."

"Of course, silly me. I should've thought of that," was her droll reply.

Erik eyed the paper in her hands but failed to comprehend the messy handwriting that covered it. What could be so important about it that it rivaled Jovan's attention for him? He watched as her eyebrows creased in discontent ― whatever it was that she was reading, it was obviously ruining her mood.

Without any sudden warning, her hands crumpled the parchment as she heaved a sigh.

Erik blinked. "Whatever did the poor paper do to you?"

"I feel like the Star in your blasted story right now," she ground out, still refusing to meet his gaze. "Damn writer's block."

His eyebrows rose. He was not expecting this. So the girl was a writer? That would explain the stack of blank papers that he saw in her trunk when he went through her things in search of any suspicious articles, some time ago. He also recalled asking her whether she could relate to the Star's plight when he'd told his little tale; she had agreed, much to his surprise then.

"What was it?" He gestured to the crumpled paper she now held in one hand. "A story? Poetry? Lyrics?"

"An elegy." That would explain her reason for staying in the chapel. She had probably written the piece for a deceased loved one.

"Having a terrible piece of work is better than having no work at all, Miss Rousseau," he remarked.

"Jovan," she quietly answered. Her stare remained on her own hands.

"Pardon?"

"Call me Jovan. Enough with this 'Miss Rousseau' nonsense. I keep hearing Monsieur Reyer's voice whenever you call me that."

Erik almost felt insulted at her words but he let it slide. "Jovan is a boy's name," he commented with tapered eyes.

"Jovan is my _real_ name. If you have any complaints about, feel free to send them to my parents' grave. They were the ones who gave my name, after all."

A ghost of a smile played on her lips. Erik was stunned at the mention of the deceased state of her parents but there was something that startled him more. The way she talked about her parents were free of any traces of harshness or resentment, and it even sounded as if she were reminiscing. He felt the cold stab of jealousy for a second before it vanished. He instantly knew that she held no grudge towards her parents. What she did have though was a grim sense of humor. It was probably something she inherited from her parents, the same people who thought it would be a wonderful idea to give their girl a boy's name.

"If you insist, _Jovan_ ," he said, but as her name slipped from his lips, he made sure that she only heard it as a whisper as he threw his voice. Her reaction was visible as she lifted her eyes from her hands and shot Erik a bewildered look. _Finally_ , she was looking at _him._ Her clever green eyes locked with his gaze.

"A ventriloquist as well, I see," she said before a small smile of awe crossed her lips. "Musician, artist, magician, inventor, architect, ventriloquist ― did I miss anything?"

His lips curled into a smirk as an idea invaded his head. "The Devil and the Emperor."

* * *

Jovan felt her hand's grasp on the crumple paper tighten. But it wasn't out of fear or anger but, rather, because the air suddenly grew heavy around them as those five words slipped from Erik's mouth. Just what on earth did he mean by those?

"Pardon?" she breathed out.

He took steps towards her, his gait lithe and even. She felt her heart race as he began to near her but he stopped before he could get too close. He simply extended his arm down towards her, offering his leather-gloved hand to her. Jovan blinked in surprise before she hesitantly took it with her hand that wasn't holding the paper. Erik pulled her to her feet without any visible effort, and she found herself stunned at the strength he hid behind his lean figure.

As he let go of her, Jovan found herself recalling his iron grip on her wrist from their last encounter. As if his hand was still wrapped around her wrist, she felt an imprint of his grasp on her skin. She tried to shake off the feeling as she stared into the distance. What in the world was she doing? Conversing with the feared Opera Ghost in the chapel? Did she really enjoy playing with fire _that_ much?

"If I asked you to write something for me, would you heed my request?" he asked with a glint in his eyes.

Jovan licked her lips. "I just told you ― I have writer's block. You haven't gone deaf, have you?"

"Writer's block? Miss Rousseau, that's because you write about the wrong subjects with the wrong muse."

She gave him a withering glare. "You don't even know what I write about."

"Of course I do. An elegy? Don't use the dead as your inspiration, Jovan. If you want to write poetry, write about the things that make you _burn_."

Jovan watched as Erik took her hand that held the crumpled paper. She found herself unnerved by his touch as he pried away her fingers one by one gently, so unlike the rough way he had caught her wrist before. After taking away the paper from her clutch, he smoothed it out and was careful not to tear it as he stepped closer to the altar. He raised the paper above the lit candles before lowering the corner of the paper towards one of the flames. The paper caught fire and began to burn.

She stared, startled. "What are you doing?"

But she soon found herself unable to take her gaze away from the burning piece of paper as she was entranced by the sea of flames. The fire quickly consumed the paper, its tongues licking the words she had written on its now creased surface. Rippling shades of orange fused into a violent and passionate dance as they devoured ink and paper with palpable hunger. The small inferno left nothing but ashes in its wake.

Before the fire could let its ruin reach the part that Erik held between his gloved fingers, he released what was left of the paper, and it fluttered down towards the altar and chapel floor along with its the ashes. The flames died as fast as they had consumed its prey, a metaphor of sorts for karma.

Jovan let out a breath that she didn't know she was holding.

"Do you know what you've just witnessed, Jovan?" Erik's voice broke the silence.

"Tell me."

"Passion, Jovan. Fervor and fury, rapture and rage ― call it what you want." A spark came to life in his green and amber eyes as he took a step towards her. "This is what you must write about. The things that make you smile and the things that make you angry. Things that stir your thoughts, that awaken your imagination. What sets your soul on fire? What makes your spirit soar? Don't be afraid to let your fantasies unwind!"

The longer he spoke, the more the spark in his eyes grew into something more. His arms were spread out, gesturing fluidly to the space around them. His gaze on her became an intense one, heated by the ardor in his eyes that matched the fervid emotion in his voice. All Jovan could think of was how unearthly he looked at that very moment, the soft candlelight reflecting in the white of his mask with his cloak spread behind him as if they were wings of darkness.

Erik moved closer and brought his hand close to her face. Her breath caught in her throat as she froze, still as a statue. Her eyes locked with his. His gloved fingers neared the line of her jaw, hovering but never touching her skin.

"Don't just write, Jovan," he whispered. " _Bleed._ "


	10. Trouble Is A Friend

Author's Note: I just wanna give my thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter ― you know who you guys are. I couldn't stop smiling like an idiot as I read your reviews! I love hearing from you guys and your feedback matters a lot to me! Here's the next one!

* * *

( _ten_ )

 **TROUBLE IS A FRIEND**

* * *

" _Broken mornings, broken nights, and broken days in between._ " Elea's voice rang out in their dormitory as she fixed her hair into a braid. The tune and lyrics that were slipping from her lips were unfamiliar to Jovan and, as far as she knew, not one of the songs that was to be performed in their latest show.

The two girls had the room all to their selves as their four other roommates had slipped out earlier to get breakfast. Jovan and Elea, when Tess tried coaxing them to come along, had said that they would follow shortly. Jovan had just finished lacing her boots when Elea sang the next line to her song.

" _Open ground, the sky is open, makes an open scene,_ " the ballerina crooned, adding a final touch to her braid as she tied a white ribbon at the end of it. Jovan marched up to Elea, who sat on the edge of her bed, and crossed her arms over her chest when she reached the ballerina.

"Someone's chirpy this morning," she commented. "Are you just going to sing all day in here?"

Elea clicked her tongue as she stood up and faced the redhead. "Don't rain on my parade just because you can't sing," she answered with a wink.

Jovan narrowed her eyes at her, her temper spiking at the comment. "That's not it. I'm worried because we're going to be late for breakfast!"

The ballerina shushed her, taking Jovan's hands in hers. "Don't worry, Jove. You may not be able to sing as good as us but at least your voice's still good for something."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I mean, have you heard yourself? That deep timbre of yours―"

Jovan wrenched her hands away from Elea's grasp before she could finish her sentence. She could not understand her friend's sudden change of topic and why they were talking about _her voice_ , of all things, on that morning. "Are you listening to yourself? Please don't tell me you're drunk!" she snapped, her features contorting into an expression of irritation.

Elea looked insulted. "I was just trying to comfort you―"

" _Comfort_ ," Jovan hissed with a mocking tone, her temper rising further. "I'll let you know, Elea, that I'm perfectly fine with my inability to sing or catch a tune, and I'm well aware of how my voice sounds," she exclaimed.

"Then why are you angry?"

"I'm not! I just ― let's just not talk about it again, okay?" she answered after taking in a deep breath.

Elea simply bit her lower lip and gave a nod of her head, not wanting to further aggravate Jovan. With that, Jovan took one of the ballerina's hands in hers and led her away from her bed and towards the door.

* * *

Amir Vacher, their thirty-something-year-old lead stagehand, was shouting something about a damage in the fly system when Jovan arrived backstage. Apparently, one the ropes that held the counterweights was worn out and the counterweight it held could fall at any moment. Amir was ordering for the damage to be repaired as soon as possible.

A few weeks into production and already, there were problems that had to be dealt with. Majority of the crew members didn't mind as long as they knew that it wasn't the doing of their resident ghost. While Jovan reckoned that Erik wouldn't cause any inconveniences when it wasn't warranted, in order to avoid setbacks in production, she also had a feeling that he wouldn't mind causing a little trouble and now and then as he seemed capable of it. After all, ghosts were known to create mischief.

Jovan was abruptly pulled out of her thoughts when she felt something hit the side of her head. It wasn't something hard but it was enough to knock off her beret and it fell to the floor. A cloud of white powder surrounded her as she reached out to touch the side of her head. When she pulled away her hand, it was covered in powdered rosin. She realized her red locks were covered with the white powder as well.

She gave a look of disgust. This was the powder that the ballerinas used to rub on the tips and heels of their shoes before they went onstage. In the distance, laughter rang out from a small group of girls. Jovan counted them ― there were three of them. She immediately recognized one of them to be Maeva, whose hands were covered with powdered rosin as well, a clue that pointed her out as the suspect.

"Oh! I'm so sorry, Jovan. I didn't see you there!"

Jovan felt her blood boil as she grit her teeth. She began to tremble with rising anger. This was just childish! She could bear Maeva's verbal harassment on any day but this was just going too far. It wasn't her damn fault that Hector was sacked! There was no reason either for the ballerina to envy her! Or was this simply their poor idea of a joke?

She knew better than to fight back, however. Amir was near, and, though she was unsure whether he had caught Maeva's little crime, Jovan doubted he'd miss it if she were to retaliate, and the last thing she'd want to see was the disappointment in his eyes when he saw that she was as no good as the ballerina. He wasn't the lead stagehand for nothing ― he led them with diplomacy and, while he wasn't afraid to lecture his stagehands once in a while, he was also known for his lenient nature. Jovan would hate to crush his heart when he had been nothing but good to her.

Instead, she picked up her beret, which was also covered with the white powder, and walked up to Amir, taking in deep breaths along the way to calm herself. He instantly noticed her appearance despite his problem with the counterweights.

"What happened, Jo?" he asked, fixing his eyes at her powdered hair with a confused stare.

"It's powdered rosin," she simply said. "Can I go clean myself up for a while?"

Amir looked like he wanted to further question her, but the look in Jovan's eyes were begging for him not to. So he simply gave a nod of his head and gave her ten minutes to clean herself up. Jovan left the backstage without wasting another minute.

* * *

It was three in the afternoon when Gemma Thorpe entered the auditorium with a vexed look on her face. The English painter immediately rushed to a trio of stagehands whom she accused of stealing her paint _again_. Jovan recognized the trio of stagehands as the troublemakers who loved to mess around with the backdrop painter ― on more than one occasion, they had stolen her paints, brushes, and even her shoes some months ago. There was enough reason as to why they were immediately pointed out as the suspects.

But as Gemma began her tongue-lashing, the three stagehands had never looked more confused than they did at that moment. They remarked that they were innocent this time but Gemma was having none of it.

"You had to take the bloody bucket of blue, of all colors!" the painter shrieked while Monsieur Lefèvre patiently waited for her to finish. After all, he knew whenever his employees were due a scolding. Jovan watched with a grin as one of the trio went down on his knees to plead his innocence but Gemma refused to be moved. Onstage, Madame Giry and her ballet corps turned a deaf ear to the English painter's tirade as they went on with their routine.

Jovan couldn't help but scowl when she saw Maeva twirl towards the center stage but not before the ballerina shot a nearby fellow ballerina a dirty look. She couldn't even imagine what she had done to earn the ballerina's attention earlier that morning. Maeva had always taken to teasing her within their shared room only. The instance that morning was the very first time Maeva progressed to acting out her anger on Jovan. The redhead gave a sigh ― she didn't want to have to deal with an ill-natured ballerina with a grudge when there were worse things to worry about...

Like Gemma Thorpe's bucket of blue paint. At that point, the painter had grown silent as she actually began to listen to the three stagehands' explanations. They had been busy repairing the fly system all morning that they had missed any opportunities to slip away from their tasks to create trouble, they explained. Jovan had never heard them this sincere. Doubt began to visibly creep into Gemma's features. If they didn't steal her paint, then who did?

Madame Giry ordered for her dancers to stop just as Maeva performed a jeté. The ballet headmistress pointed to her. "Your arms are wrong. You're too stiff ― you look like a bird."

The moment the last word left Madame Giry's lips, a mass of blue liquid descended from above the stage. Blue paint fell from an unseen source towards one of the ballet rats below as Jovan's mouth fell open. In the blink of an eye, Maeva was coated, from head to toe, in dripping, blue paint.

The orchestra fell silent as so did every person in the theater. Gemma Thorpe looked ready to throw another fit as Maeva stood frozen in her spot. Madame Giry could only look on in horror at the disaster before her. From her spot near the entrance to the backstage, Jovan felt a wicked mixture of panic and satisfaction flare in her chest.

A second passed. An anguished scream tore its way out of Maeva's throat.

* * *

A voice echoed off the tunnels that led to his dwelling as Erik continued to run his fingers across his organ. He was livid in his playing, the notes escaping the keys reflecting his state of mind as they menacingly thundered throughout the room. Erik didn't stop to turn even when he heard Antoinette's furious footfalls come to a stop in his lair.

" _Erik!_ Erik, listen to me, you―"

He tuned out her voice until the music overwhelmed him once again. It swept him away from his spot on his bench and into a world only he had the pleasure of knowing. A world of darkness, black as night and black as his soul, a thousand screaming faces surrounding him as their screams faded to white noise and the music he created overpowered them. But his demons were fierce, and they fought back with all their might, screaming his name, screaming of his past, screaming about the blood on his hands―

" _ERIK!_ "

His fingers stumbled across the keys as his name slipped from Antoinette's lips. The hymn ended with a loud, discordant bang as Erik's fingers shook in the aftermath of the intensity of his mania. He gripped his hands into fists to still them before he sucked in a steadying breath. He ran a hand to smooth his hair before he found his voice.

"I apologize, Antoinette. I did not notice your arrival―"

"Didn't you, Erik?" the woman snapped at him. Erik turned away from his organ to see the stern headmistress standing near the edge of the lake. "What happened back there?"

His eyebrows furrowed and he stood up from the bench, making his way down the steps and towards Antoinette. "You'll need to be more specific, madame."

Antoinette's small framed trembled with anger as Erik approached her. He knew very well what the ballet headmistress was talking about, and all of his attention was instantly redirected in using every ounce of his self-control to not smirk in satisfaction at that very moment. Soon, the thought of his irate composition from earlier was pushed out of his mind, forgotten.

Antoinette took a brief moment to calm herself before she gave a reply. "Erik. During rehearsals. Gemma Thorpe's missing blue paint. Maeva. Was that you?"

He gave a thoughtful hum. "Oh, _that_. Yes, I'm afraid so."

Antoinette heaved a sigh as Erik tried not to falter under her scalding stare. She looked like she could murder him on that very spot at that very moment. He noticed that the hem of her skirts had small splashes of blue paint on it. Her dress had to be the only thing that he felt sorry for, not his actions and certainly not for Maeva.

"May I ask why?" the ballet headmistress asked with a tired tone. She didn't even know why she bothered to ask when it wasn't unlike Erik to cause trouble without a reason.

Truth be told, Erik wasn't looking for a reason to create mischief until he saw what Maeva had done to a certain red-haired stagehand. He had simply been brainstorming in the darkness of the rafters as to what trouble he could cause on that day and who would be the poor victim to his actions when he witnessed Maeva's little crime. Suddenly, he found the perfect prey to his vile little plan. And, boy, did she deserve what came for her.

"Other than the fact that your ballet rat's a pompous, deplorable excuse for a human being? I just happened to witness her commit a crime this morning."

"A crime?"

"She subjected to torment a person most undeserving of such vile treatment."

Antoinette arched a brow. "And who are you to judge who's worthy and unworthy of the respective treatments that they receive?"

Erik recalled the very second that he felt his temper flare, the same second the powdered rosin hit Jovan's head. If there was something he was absolutely sure of, it was that Jovan didn't need to suffer through the devilry of a grudge-bearing ballerina when she had arrived to the Opéra Populaire in search of sanctuary in the first place. And if there was one person in the entirety of the opera hose who could empathize with Jovan's plight, it was Erik. Weren't they both pariahs hiding from the world outside, after all?

"Between Maeva Grosjean and Jovan Rousseau? It's an easy verdict to make, I must say."

Erik watched with amusement as Antoinette's features contorted into bafflement then shock upon hearing his words.

"What do you know about Jovan Rousseau?" she hissed.

Erik gave a grin as he walked away from Antoinette and towards one of his shelves, where he began to sift through his vast collection of books. "We talked about it once."

" _Talked_ about it? Or do you mean you bullied information out of her?" Antoinette spat as she followed Erik. There was no way that she was going to believe that Jovan would so easily spill her secrets to the Phantom. Which brought another thought to Antoinette ― did they already meet? If so, how? When? Where? How many times already?

"I prefer the term 'interrogation,' mind you," Erik answered as he pulled out a collection of Shakespeare's sonnets from his shelf. "Her words, to be exact, were 'I'm hiding from someone terrible out there who is after me for all the wrong reasons.'"

Antoinette began to fume as he opened the book in his hands and began to thumb through its pages. Before she could stop herself, she grabbed the book from Erik's grasp and slammed it shut with a resounding echo. She met Erik's glare with one of her own and spoke just as he opened his mouth to do so. "Interrogated her, Erik? Tell me exactly what happened."

"Oh please, Antoinette. Don't stress yourself ― I didn't scare her. That much, anyway. Besides, she brought it upon herself. She wasn't as careful as a person in her place is supposed to be."

"She brought it upon herself?" She gave Erik a look of disbelief. "Wasn't as careful ― _explain!_ "

Erik snatched back the book from her with a snarl. "The girl's too clever for her own good! The first time I approached her, she reacted rather fearlessly. Not only that, but she also proved to have quite the sharp tongue and a quick-witted mind to go with it. Those traits of hers were enough to raise alarms because, let's be honest, the stagehands are not a bright lot, perhaps save for three or four of them."

"But prodigies can appear in the oddest of places, Erik. You, of all people, should know that very well," Antoinette remarked with a pointed look at him.

Erik gave a roll of his eyes and turned away from the ballet headmistress' piercing stare. "I'm not a fool, Antoinette. But you can't blame me for thinking that she was a spy of sorts or something of the like. And it didn't seem to me like she was making any effort to hide her intellectual capacity. Besides, you know me ― it doesn't rest well with me to know nothing about the people who work in my opera house, and when Jovan Rousseau arrived, she was a clean slate. Regarding her appearance as well, I didn't know what to think of it ― is she in disguise or not?"

Antoinette rubbed her temples. "She dresses the way she does to avoid attention."

"She's failing spectacularly. The opposite's happening. Although I can't blame her ― she's a distracting sight."

She didn't even want to mull over Erik's last words; she didn't know whether he was being sarcastic or not. She raised a hand to stop him from speaking any further, indicating that she'd heard all that she needed to at the moment. Besides, Antoinette _did_ trust Erik, no matter how much he made her head hurt.

"It's been a trying day, Erik. I trust that despite all this, you remain within your limits. You know what I mean. Because the moment that something suspicious happens to that girl, I won't hesitate―"

"Yes, yes," Erik cut her off with a dismissive wave of his hand. Too tired to argue, Antoinette merely rolled her eyes before she stomped her way out of his lair.

* * *

Jovan skipped dinner that night. Something about the food just didn't appeal to her, and it resulted in her leaving the table before everyone could even take their seats. She was grateful that no one followed her, not even Elea who had been grumbling earlier how that day's rehearsals left her ravenous. Once she arrived to her dormitory, Jovan was relieved to see that she would have the room all to herself for at least an hour. Not a single soul occupied the room, not even Maeva who was probably still stuck in the baths, busy scrubbing off the blue paint from her skin. What a hellish ordeal that had to be.

A small smile curved her lips at that thought. While she did feel sorry for the ballerina, that emotion was only there for the shortest of moments. After all the verbal harassment and the scene with the powdered rosin, Jovan found it hard to feel pity for Maeva for so long. But that didn't mean that she was going to allow herself to feel happiness for Maeva's misfortune as well. That would just make Jovan no better than the ballerina.

The moment Jovan reached her bed, she sank into it with content moan. While she couldn't be bothered to remove her boots just yet, she was careful though to make sure that they did not dirty her sheets. She pulled off her beret and removed her hair from its bun. With her hair hanging loose, Jovan couldn't help but remember her earlier ordeal of having to clean the powdered rosin from her red locks. Now that her hair reached a bit past her shoulders, she considered cutting it again to the same short length that it had when she arrived to the Opéra Populaire. Jovan ran a hand through her locks ― while she did adore her hair, its color didn't help in keeping attention away from her, not when she was the only redhead in the opera house.

That notion was quickly forgotten however when Jovan felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She felt a piercing stare land on her as she quickly sat up, only to be greeted with the sight of Erik's dark figure looming over her bed.

" _You!_ How did you even get in here?" she demanded, her eyes darting to the door. It was locked, just as she had left it before she entered the room.

Erik rolled his eyes. "What part of 'Opera Ghost' do you not understand, mademoiselle?"

Jovan gave a snarl as she scooted towards the edge of her bed. "Maeva and the blue paint ― that was your doing wasn't it?"

"Not one to beat around the bush, are you?"

"Depends. Why did you do it?"

He began to pace around the room with a scrutinizing eye pointed towards the beds and trunks. "Do I need a reason?"

"I guess not," Jovan quietly answered, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't know for whom you did it for or if you even did it for somebody but, nevertheless, I want to thank you for what you did to Maeva."

She heard Erik scoff as he took slow steps towards Christine's nightstand. On it was a book which he picked up and began leafing through. "My pleasure. The little brat deserved it, after all. You're not the only who's suffered under her shenanigans."

Jovan gave a nod. "I'm aware but I'm glad that I'm the last one that'll ever have to suffer because of her. That is, if your little trick worked in scaring the living daylights out of her to the point that she won't attempt to bully another person in this place ever again."

"If my little trick didn't work, she can say goodbye to her place in the ballet corps."

Jovan felt a shiver at his words. She watched as he closed Christine's book and gently put it back in its place on her nightstand. While she was not a fan of dead air, she was willing to let silence reign in the room during this one time as there was simply nothing else to talk about, nor was she about to start another conversation with the Phantom.

At that point, her feelings about him were still very much unclear. Having to feel fascination and fear at the same time whenever he was around was a funny feeling. On one hand, she did enjoy their banter and hearing him speak was a pleasure to the ears. He wasn't too bad for the eyes either ― she honestly didn't mind the mask, not when it simply added an air of mystery to him. The half of his face that was uncovered though... Jovan would be lying if she said that she didn't think him handsome. But she would never admit that out loud; the Phantom seemed conceited enough as he was.

He sauntered towards her bed and Jovan felt herself shifting uncomfortably under his gaze, his eyes intense as always. He stopped a foot away from the edge of her bed and reached for something within his cloak. His hand came out with a rose red apple in his grasp, his arm outstretched towards her.

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, her eyes demanding an explanation from the Phantom.

Erik rolled his eyes. "I can't have one of my stagehands go to bed without eating something. It could affect their performance the next day, and I would hate for an accident to occur that would only result in another setback in production."

Jovan eyed the apple in his hand with a curious gaze, what sweet flesh it hid behind its rosy skin. Her first thought had been that it was poisoned, but she quickly banished that thought, a stray and rather ridiculous notion brought about by the influence of reading too many fairy tales in her childhood. But the writer in her couldn't help but regard the fruit with the numerous meanings it held ― temptation, discord, beauty, knowledge, sin, purity...

When a moment passed where Jovan remained unresponsive, Erik simply heaved an impatient sigh before he tossed the apple towards her. She barely caught it with a startled groan as she was pulled away from her thoughts. She stared at him with curiosity, not knowing whether to thank him. He parted his lips to speak.

"It's not poisoned, if that's what you were wondering."

* * *

Author's Note: The song Elea sings is 'Conqueror' by Aurora. Also, I used a quote here from a really famous TV show (and a favorite of mine too)! Can you guys spot it? And if you've any questions, don't be afraid to leave them in a review below!


	11. Glass Half Empty

Author's Note: As I post this, the eleventh chapter, I am writing the twenty-first chapter for this story. Yes, that's how far ahead I am in writing this story. But while my muse is currently strong, I know that it won't last for long. There's also the fact that my classes have resumed, which now leaves me with little to no time to write during the weekdays, unlike before. Because of that, my updates will no longer be days apart but most likely weeks. Specifically, a week at least and a month at most. It all depends on how fast I am able to write in advance with what vacant time I'm gonna have. Wish me luck!

* * *

( _eleven_ )

 **GLASS HALF EMPTY**

* * *

Jovan woke up with a scream on her lips and Elea's slender fingers wrapped around her wrists. A sheen of sweat covered her skin that made the fabric of her nightgown stick to her figure. She wasn't aware of the tears on her cheeks until Elea wiped them away. She was only vaguely aware of her name being called as her eyes darted around the room.

" _Jovan!_ Look at me! You're here, you're safe with me." Elea's face screamed before her.

She furiously nodded her head as she tuned out Elea's voice, her friend's hands placed on either side of her face. Jovan gently pulled them away as she wiped away the sweat and tears on her face.

"I'm fine, Elea," she muttered, her voice cracked. Had she been screaming?

In the background, she saw the concerned faces of Tess, Adèle, and Christine in the dark. Maeva was sitting up on her bed as well, but her expression read more of irritation than anything else. Their lamps on their nightstands were lit, their curtains drawn. Elea sat on the edge of Jovan's bed. Had she woken them all up?

Jovan grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled hard, quietly berating herself. Elea gently untangled her fingers from her hair as she pulled the redhead closer.

"Back to bed, everyone. We still have rehearsals tomorrow," Elea announced to the room in an effort to drive away their attention from Jovan. Maeva was the first to collapse back on her bed while Christine and Adèle followed after a second's hesitation. Tess softly muttered something that Jovan failed to comprehend to which Elea gave a nod in response. All the lamps went out in the dormitory save for the one on Elea's nightstand which stood between her bed and Jovan's.

"I'm sorry I woke you all up," Jovan whispered, her voice painfully small.

Elea shushed her. "You don't have to apologize for anything, Jo."

* * *

One week. One week from now and it would be opening night again for the latest opera. This meant that practically everyone was in a rush to perfect or remedy something for the premiere ― chorus girls spent most of their time practicing high notes while the ballet rats were trying to perfect their moves. The stagehands were left to inspect the props, rigging, lighting, and equipment. Amir was checking the fly system for any more damages. Somewhere in the orchestra pit, Monsieur Reyer could be heard wailing.

"Jovan, could you bring that rock over here?" Mateo asked, pointing to a prop that weighed heavier than it looked that he had more than once wondered whether it was an actual rock. "Wait, no. Never mind. I'll do it."

Mateo began to march towards the prop but Jovan pushed him away with a sigh. "I can do it," she said with a roll of her eyes, approaching the prop before she lifted it with both her arms with little effort. Mateo tried not to gape at the sight, but he often forgot that Jovan was stronger than she looked.

The rest of the day passed by quickly. At one point, one of the chorus girls had a panic attack, but other than that, the day was uneventful. Jovan was thankful for the fact that Maeva no longer took notice of her, even if they were in the same room ― the girl wouldn't even put an eye on her. Erik's little trick worked after all and, at that thought, Jovan found her lips pulling into small smile.

"Head in the clouds again, hm?" a familiar voice disturbed her thoughts. The smile vanished from her lips as Jovan glanced behind her shoulder, but was puzzled to see no one behind her. Her eyebrows knitted in confusion.

"Don't bother looking for me," Erik's voice whispered again before she could even voice out her confusion. She reckoned he had to be throwing his voice from a distance. Jovan didn't bother giving a reply, unsure whether he'd be able to even hear her from wherever he was. Instead, she shrugged her shoulders and resumed securing the knots and ropes that held the backdrops.

A hand landed on her shoulder with an unfamiliar voice accompanying it. Alarm shot through her as Jovan flinched and quickly pushed the hand away before turning to see who the person was. A fellow stagehand, Isaac, met her gaze with widened eyes as he backed away from her, his hands raised up in a gesture of surrender.

"Calm down, calm down. It's just me," he said with a crooked grin before Jovan gave a sigh of relief. "Amir's calling you down backstage, he told me to notify you."

Jovan finished her work of knotting the ropes before she pushed past Isaac towards the stairs leading backstage, not even bothering to grace him with a reply, not after he gave her such a fright. She jogged towards the lead stagehand who was busy instructing two of his stagehands to fix the lights and the cords.

"Monsieur Vacher, you called for me?" Jovan called out when she neared him.

"There you are, Jo. Monsieur Lefèvre's asking for you," Amir replied with a glance towards her before he gestured to the manager, who was busy chatting with Madame Giry not far from the entrance to the stage. Jovan gave a nod of thanks before she went to Monsieur Lefèvre, trying to calm the way her heart had raced at the mention of the manager's name. She hadn't done anything wrong, had she?

He immediately noticed her presence as she approached him with a thin-lipped smile. "Ah, Mademoiselle... Rousseau," he gave a nod and greeted her with a slight hesitation towards what he should call her. Jovan took notice of it but simply replied with a polite bow towards both the manager and Madame Giry. The ballet headmistress gave her a small smile.

"Monsieur Lefèvre, you asked for me," Jovan said.

"Yes, I did." He reached for something in his jacket and pulled out an unsealed envelope which he handed to her. Jovan took it with a questioning look towards Monsieur Lefèvre.

"I hope you haven't forgotten the occasion, mademoiselle," he chided her lightheartedly before gesturing to the envelope in her hands. "It's just something I saw in the archives, although I've no idea how such a thing got mixed up in the opera house's records. So I thought you just ought to have it."

Jovan stood still for a moment, mulling over his words until the day finally dawned on her. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks, painting them a rosy red, before her lips broke into a sheepish smile. "I-I've forgotten ― it slipped my mind, monsieur! And madame."

"You ought to have given the poor girl a calendar instead," Madame Giry playfully rebuked Monsieur Lefèvre, who replied with a chuckle. Jovan stood frozen in place when the ballet headmistress leaned in close to her, her voice barely above a whisper when she spoke to her in a gentle tone.

"Happy birthday, child."

* * *

Jovan wrapped her cloak tighter around herself as she adjusted her position at the foot of the marble statue. Her knees were drawn up to her chest while she rested her chin on them. In her hands, she kept on turning over the cream envelope that Monsieur Lefèvre had given her earlier. She ran a finger over the name written on the front in the manager's handwriting.

 _Mlle. N. Jovan S._

She sucked in a breath of the cold October air. October. How could it have slipped from her mind? Her own birthday forgotten, buried in the back of her mind after all that had transpired before and after she arrived to the Opéra Populaire. But Jovan was quick to put aside the occasion in favor of her work. After all, there wasn't much to celebrate besides the fact that she was now nineteen. The latest opera however, would be premiering one week from now and that was worth more paying attention to.

Still, she found herself alone on the rooftop once again after that day's rehearsals. Jovan had no doubt that, at such a late hour, Elea would be losing her mind in search of her, which was why she made the precaution of leaving a note on the ballerina's nightstand, asking her not to worry about her whereabouts and that she'd be back in their dormitory before eleven. Jovan wasn't sure how much she needed the isolation and quiet all to herself on that day, and she even had a sneaking suspicion that she might stay on the rooftop past midnight. That was, if she could have the rooftop all to herself up until that hour.

Biting her bottom lip, Jovan opened the envelope and pulled out whatever it contained. She was stunned to see that it was not a letter, but a photograph. It was a bit faded in some places, and it was black and white, lacking any colors. Her eyes widened into saucers as she recognized the two people frozen in the moment that was captured in the photograph she held.

It was a couple that she guessed to be in their twenties. The woman had her back pressed against the man's chest while his arms were wrapped around her figure. Behind them, against the night sky, was the very opera house that Jovan was staying in at the moment, unmistakable in all its fame and glory. But she was quick to spot the architecture which slightly differed from the Opéra Populaire's present design, and given the time when the photograph was taken, which had to be many years ago, Jovan deduced that it had to be the former Palais Garnier standing behind them, long before it was reconstructed and rechristened as the Opéra Populaire.

But it wasn't the opera house that garnered her shock and curiosity. It was the couple who stood center in the photograph. They were wearing costumes, she realized, and the woman held a mask in one hand. The picture had to be taken during the annual Bal Masqué. Smiles curved their lips, and Jovan wondered for a second whether the photograph could've managed to capture and preserve the very happiness they felt at that moment as well. The man had a dark mass of unruly, curly hair on his head, but he didn't seem to mind his appearance in light of what the occasion was when the picture was taken. The woman in his arms was the spitting image of Jovan.

She let out a silent gasp as she hovered her finger over the woman's face, her curls pinned up into a half-do with a few loose stray strands. The photograph lacked any colors but Jovan knew very well that the woman had the same color of hair and eyes that Jovan had.

So this was Monsieur Lefèvre's gift to her ― a decades-old photograph that had been lost among the archives in his office. A photograph of her mother and father in a time when the world was kinder, a time that had long past by. It not a mere photograph, but a reminder as well.

Jovan felt tears prick her eyes but she immediately dried them with her sleeve. Once again, she had just been reminded of everything that she had lost.

* * *

Author's Note: So I introduced the idea in a previous chapter (Muse Of Mine), but more light about it is shed in here. I'm talking about Opéra Populaire's history ― this is just a little deviation from canon. In a nutshell, Palais Garnier was the name of the original opera house before it was reconstructed and renamed as the Opéra Populaire. Sorry 'cause there's barely any Erik in here! Leave a review? Pretty please?


	12. Lullabye

Author's Note: Regarding the last chapter, Monsieur Lefèvre finding a photograph of Jovan's parents in the archives of the Opéra Populaire isn't as random as you think it is if you paid close attention to the details in Chapter Five, Before The Storm. *wink* Thank you to my readers for everything! I just can't express how helpful you all are with your reviews and notifications!

Le Fantome: I think you'll love this chapter as well, it has loads of Erik in it!

* * *

( _twelve_ )

 **LULLABYE**

* * *

It was another success for the Opéra Populaire on opening night for their latest opera. Nothing less was expected of the performers as they received a standing ovation from their audience. The gala and the celebration that followed was just as terrific as one could expect when Christmas was near. The halls and the ballroom echoed with merriment and high spirits as the night grew older. The situation was the same backstage and in the cafeteria where the staff were limited to. While they were separated from the opera house's prestigious audience, their celebration was not any less delightful.

Two hours after Elea had brought Jovan to join the celebrations, the ballerina wasn't sure whether to regret her decision. Like the previous premiere, Jovan was inebriated again, although tonight was worse. Last time, she'd only had one bottle of whiskey, but Elea was unsure how many she'd drank down tonight until she approached her. Elea simply had to lead Jovan away from the celebration after the feisty redhead ended up almost knocking out one of her fellow stagehands. The high-spirited and similarly drunk crowd had cheered Jovan on, and Elea had taken their chants as her cue to call it a night for Jovan.

They were currently on the corridor leading to their dormitory when Jovan stumbled on her own feet. A chuckle escaped her lips.

Elea groaned as she helped her friend back on her feet. "I never took you for a tippler, Jove," she muttered under her breath.

"A tippler? But I've only been drunk twice!"

"Yes, twice. But you overdo it each time," Elea scoffed.

"No, I don't," Jovan replied dramatically.

"And I thought you said you were never going to drink again," Elea commented with an amused smile, to which Jovan scoffed at in reply. In the distance, Elea heard her name being called. She immediately recognized the owner of the voice as her suitor, Aldrich. A blush tainted her cheeks at the thought, and Jovan managed to catch it despite her intoxicated state.

"Ooh, Prince Charming's calling for you," Jovan snickered. How the redhead managed to be coherent in her words even after God-knows-how-many bottles of liquor, Elea would never know. Instead, she poked Jovan's side with her elbow to silence her.

"I'm here!" Elea tried to call out in response, but she doubted Aldrich heard her. Jovan then gave a groan as she untangled herself from the ballerina and nudged her back towards the direction they came from.

Elea shot her a look. Jovan gave a wave of her hand. "Go on, go to Prince Charming. I can manage the rest of the way. It's not far now."

"Are you sure?" Elea asked, her words laced with concern.

"Of course!" Jovan huffed, but maybe it was the alcohol talking. She leaned against one side of the corridor near a candelabra. "Now go."

The ballerina was clearly torn, but after receiving Jovan's reassurance, Elea gathered up her courage and ran back to the direction they came from. Jovan was about to shout a taunt towards how unladylike Elea was but she simply grinned to herself at the rare sight of the ballerina picking up her skirts and running down the corridor.

Once Elea was out of sight, Jovan resumed walking towards her room. Given her surroundings, she was able to make out that she wasn't far now. The key to the dormitory was in her pocket, and Jovan gave it a pat to console herself. Without wasting another moment, Jovan continued to make her way as quietly as she could manage while doing her best not to stumble on her own feet again.

Until she did.

But before she could fall, Jovan felt a sturdy pair of arms catch her in the darkness.

* * *

Erik let out a sigh as he broke the stagehand's fall, a groan leaving her lips as he caught her in his arms. He quickly pulled her back on her feet and met her eyes in the darkness. He instantly smelled the alcohol on her breath. What on God's green Earth could've possessed the girl to give her the courage to drink herself to the point where she could no longer walk straight?

"Tripping on air now, aren't we?" he quietly berated her with an arched brow.

"Talking to shadows too," she muttered with a giggle as she leaned in close towards the side of his head, her lips near his ear.

Erik cleared his throat. It seemed that even in an intoxicated state, she was able to hold on to her wits. He became aware of his arms wrapping her in an awkward embrace, his hands holding on to her arms. Jovan's hands were pressed against his chest for support.

"I heard you almost got into a fight, you foolish girl," he remarked.

She gave a smirk, not looking ashamed one bit. "Damien was acting like a swine."

The moment the words slipped from her mouth, Erik felt a shiver bolt down his spine as he felt her hot breath on his skin. He stiffened. While her voice was distinct for being low and husky, he couldn't help but notice the slight change in her voice now that she was drunk. There was a sultry edge to it now that the alcohol in her veins had made her more confident.

Erik's pulse escalated as he pulled away from her. He moved to her side where he draped her arm around his shoulder to support her as he accompanied her to the dormitories.

Once they arrived inside her room, Erik made sure to lock the door to keep out any intruders who had any vile interests in mind. He watched with narrowed eyes as Jovan stumbled towards the bed nearest to the door which he presumed to be hers. But before she could climb on it, Erik grabbed her arm to stop her.

"What?" Jovan whined, tugging her arm away.

"Take off your boots, you'll dirty your sheets."

With a groan, Jovan ignored Erik's words as she simply collapsed her upper body onto the mattress, her legs dangling off the edge of her bed. Erik gave a roll of his eyes until his gaze landed on her head. Her beret had fallen off the moment she fell on her bed and her red hair became visible to sight. He instantly noticed something different about her locks, however. He approached her and, in one swift move, pulled away the black ribbon holding her tresses together, and her hair came loose.

Erik was stunned to see that her hair no longer reached past her shoulders but a mere inch below her chin. His eyes widened in surprise before Jovan's hand grabbed the ribbon in his hand and swatted him away. He quickly backed away to compose himself as Jovan curled into herself, her ribbon balled in her fist and her eyes shut tight.

He heard her mutter something as he neared towards her nightstand.

"What was that?" Erik asked as he pulled at the first drawer. He saw a dip pen and a glass inkwell occupying the drawer along with an unsealed cream envelope, a few more black ribbons, and a silver chain with a small, round, white moonstone as its pendant.

Jovan gave a hum. "Do you have a cat?"

Erik was taken aback by the unexpected question as he slammed the first drawer shut. He gave her a glance and saw that her eyes were still closed but there was a smile playing on her lips. Could it be the alcohol talking?

"Yes, I do," he answered honestly, surprising himself as he opened the second drawer of her nightstand. His eyes scanned over a matchbox, two candles, a silver and intricately designed letter opener, and several folded sheets of paper, until his gaze finally landed on the item he was looking for.

"Can I meet her? Or him?" Jovan asked. Erik gave a scoff as he eyed the slender silver object in her drawer. It glinted and grinned wickedly at him, sharp and beckoning. He quickly snatched the pair of scissors and slipped it into one of the hidden pockets of his cloak before Jovan could blink her eyes open.

"No, I don't think so. Wandering away from my home is not a habit of hers," Erik answered as he neared one of the posts of her bed and leaned against it.

"So your cat's a lady?" Jovan snickered as she uncurled from herself and lied flat on her back, her distant gaze glued to the canopy of her bed.

"Her name's Ayesha," Erik found himself gracing her with an answer. His wary stare never left her as his eyes wandered to her hands which were placed on her stomach, her fingers idly playing with the black ribbon.

"Can I meet her?" she parroted her question from earlier. He heaved a sigh, but, at the same time, he could not ignore the small spark of amusement he felt at witnessing Jovan in her inebriated state.

An idea intruded his thoughts and he decided to let it take root as a grin placed itself on his lips. "Since you're so keen on meeting my little lady, I offer you a challenge."

Jovan seemed to perk up at his words as her gaze switched to him. Erik was startled to see her wide-eyed gaze, her eyes tainted with a little red that showed off her drunken state. But it seemed that her condition was not enough to stop her from taking on a challenge. If there was one thing that he learned from their little encounters, it was that she loved to be challenged. Why else would she keep up with his banter? He knew that he matched her level of wit.

"What challenge?" she asked.

Erik doubted she'd remember their conversation when morning came, but he decided to simply live in the moment. "If you can find where I live, I'll gladly introduce you to Ayesha."

Jovan gave a triumphant cackle. "Easy! You live in the Opéra Populaire!"

He narrowed his gaze at her, a glint of irritation in the green and amber of his eyes. "I meant literally find where I live within the opera house."

She was silent for a brief moment before her lips formed into a small 'o.' " _Accipio te provocatione_ , Monsieur le Phantom." _I accept your challenge_.

Erik gave a nod before his mind processed the words that had just slipped from her mouth. Had she just spoken Latin? Fluently? He couldn't help but stare at Jovan with an aghast look on his face as the redhead shut her eyes again and grabbed the nearest pillow to her.

 _Too clever for her own good._ Erik's own words from his conversation with Antoinette came rushing back to him as he continued to stare at the puzzle before him. His curiosity was going to be the death of him if Erik let himself be taken over by the urge to know more about Jovan. What secrets did she hide behind lock and key? What would it cost for her to spill them to him?

"I shall make a virgin sacrifice to purify myself once again," she suddenly exclaimed, eyes blinking wide open as she had been in thought.

Erik resisted the urge to rub his temples. Jovan in a sober state was enough of an enigma but talking to her in an intoxicated state...

"And where do you plan to get a virgin?" he answered, deciding to humor her.

Her piercing green eyes darted to him. "You. Aren't you one?"

Good God. Erik didn't even want to know where she got the idea, but he resisted the urge to correct her and deny her claim. He did give in to the urge of planting his face into his palm though. The sigh he gave only seemed to amuse the redhead further as she gave a chuckle.

"Go to sleep, Jovan," he scolded her with a light tone as he pulled his hand away from his face. He watched as Jovan pulled up her legs and feet to her bed and tried not to wince when her boots landed on her white sheets.

"I don't want to," she softly whined, burying her face into the pillow her arms held as she curled into herself again. "Even in my dreams, I'm at war."

Erik froze as he listened. She had whispered those last words, but his ears had caught them with perfect clarity. He felt his heart stutter as he watched her form on the bed grow still. He thought that sleep had finally claimed her until he heard the softest of whimpers.

Was she crying? Erik found himself taking a step closer towards her, wanting to reach out and brush away her red locks that shielded her face from him if only to confirm his suspicions. It was a sudden and surprising change of mood when, only a moment ago, she had been teasing him about his virginity, but he knew he shouldn't be surprised. After all, drunk people were prone to sudden mood swings, going from laughter to tears in a matter of seconds.

Erik really couldn't care less when this thing was a normal occurrence for drunk people, but something about Jovan's words stilled him. _Even in my dreams, I'm at war._ She'd sounded genuinely scared when those words slipped from her lips that they couldn't help but pique his concern.

He perched on the edge of her bed as he hovered over her and reached out, but the moment his leather-gloved fingers touched her, Jovan pulled away from him with a small, muted cry. He knew now that she was indeed crying, but he took a moment to tell himself that it was likely that she shrank away from his touch because of... other reasons. But definitely not because she was scared of him. She wasn't, was she? After all, she hadn't seen the monster that hid behind the mask yet.

After an intake of breath, Erik decided to remove his glove. This time, he moved slowly until his fingers finally touched her flaming hair. Erik held his breath, but she didn't flinch at his touch. Then as gently as he could, he brushed them away from her face until he saw her tear-streaked cheeks.

Erik wanted nothing more than to wipe away her tears at that moment but he restrained himself. But there was nothing he could do to restrain the way his heart raced at the sight of her. He could see that she was trying so hard to calm her breathing but she was failing, her breaths growing more shallow with each breath as he noticed her grip on her pillow tighten.

How could he calm her? It was the least he could do ― leaving a girl crying in her bed wasn't exactly something he wanted haunting what conscience he had. No, he refused to let Jovan cry the night away while merriment commenced outside of the dormitories. But what could he do? She was visibly hurting and there was nothing he could do. Unless...

An idea slipped into his mind, quiet and soothing. Suddenly, he knew what he needed to do. A mellow note escaped his parted lips.

" _You were alone, left out in the cold,_  
 _Clinging to the ruin of your broken home._  
 _Too lost and hurting to carry your load;_  
 _We all need someone to hold._ "

As the words rolled off his tongue with a gentle tune, Erik turned over the lyrics in his mind. It was an old lullabye that he had composed but had long forgotten, until the need for it arose and the notes instantly came back to him like he'd only composed it yesterday. He couldn't even remember why he wrote it, not when he had no need of lullabyes nor did he have anyone to sing them to.

" _You've been fighting the memory, all on your own._  
 _Nothing worsens, nothing grows._  
 _I know how it feels, being by yourself in the rain;_  
 _We all need someone to stay._  
 _We all need someone to stay._ "

Lullabyes. Erik often regarded them with a bitter note as they were the songs that a mother would sing to lull her children to sleep, and Erik had a woman give birth to him but never once had she sung him a lullabye. Not even when he went on his knees and cried at her feet. But as he sang to the red-haired angel before him now, he found that there was not an ounce of malice tainting the thoughts in his head. At that moment, all he wanted to do was to share his gift of music to her, even if tomorrow's arrival did not guarantee the memory of that night.

" _Hear you falling and lonely, cry out:_  
 _Will you fix me up? Will you show me hope?_  
 _At the end of the day, you were helpless;_  
 _Can you keep me close?_ "

Erik paused. The song was not yet finished. He knew very well that it wasn't. And yet, he found himself hesitating as the last words of the lullabye sat on the tip of tongue, threatening to escape at any second. He gazed down at Jovan and saw the steady rise and fall of her chest, indicating that she had finally fallen asleep. Her lips were parted and the grip on her pillow had loosened. Reassured that she was no longer conscious to hear him, he let the last lyric slip from his lips. But whether or not they held weight, Erik was unsure himself.

" _Can you love me most?_ "

* * *

Author's Note: Erik sings! *screeching in the background* Well, this was emotionally draining to write. Anyways, the line 'Even in my dreams, I'm at war,' was inspired by a poem titled 'Rest Achilles, the world will wait' which was written by Tumblr user lostcap. You should check out her poetry because she is one of the finest writers out there in my opinion! The song that Erik sings here is 'Someone To Stay' by Vancouver Sleep Clinic. It's a song that I highly recommend if you want some feels. Lastly, Erik is simply sharing his music with Jovan in this chapter, alright? Nothing more ― that last lyric is not a confession of love or anything of the like. Don't forget to review!


	13. Black Sheep

Author's Note: It's not December yet but, oh well.

* * *

( _thirteen_ )

 **BLACK SHEEP**

* * *

Jovan felt the heat rush to the apple of her cheeks as she passed by Damien, a fellow stagehand, on the corridor. The moment she crossed his line of sight, his eyes widened into saucers and he immediately stepped to the side to let her pass through.

"Mademoiselle Rousseau," he muttered with an awkward bow, and Jovan replied with a nod that was just as awkward.

It wasn't because of the stagehand's attitude towards her that morning that Jovan found herself blushing at but, rather, it was because of Elea's words that rushed back to her the moment Damien stepped aside for her. _All I want is for you to gain even just a little bit of respect from the imbeciles trotting around here._ As she roamed around the Opéra Populaire, Jovan found that Elea was right after all. She currently donned the white blouse and black walking skirt that Elea had dressed her up in over four months ago. It seemed that dressing appropriately was only doing her a favor, if something was to be learned from Damien's newfound respect for her.

As she turned around a bend, Jovan ran a hand through her hair. She wore it loose on that morning during her stroll around the opera house, but it wasn't like she could style it anyway. She knew of no way as to how to style it _neatly_ without Elea's help, and the ballerina had gone home for Christmas the night right after their performances had drawn to a close. Jovan doubted that her hair could be styled anyway, given how short it was now, only ending a mere inch below her chin. She had cut it in a bout of self-loathing not long after her last nightmare where she ended up waking all of her roommates.

The opera house was uncharacteristically silent, but it was expected to be in such a state now that almost everyone had gone home for the holidays. Only a dozen or two of the entirety of the staff remained, consisting of those who had no families to go home to and those who had made the Opéra Populaire their home. Jovan, Damien, Christine, Meg, and Madame Giry were a few of those people.

The redhead emitted a sigh as she recalled the absence of her two closest friends, Elea and Mateo. With both of them gone, she practically had no one else to talk to. Sure, she shared the same room with Christine, but it was obvious that the Swedish ballerina preferred the company of Meg over Jovan's. She wasn't considering talking to the handful of stagehands that had stayed for the holidays as well ― they would be keeping to themselves for the rest of the break, and she generally didn't want to come near with them. Conversing with whoever had remained from the ballet corps and chorus members was out of the question as well. Jovan had no interest in the subjects their lot tended to discuss ― gossip about the nobility, the latest Parisian fashion, et cetera. These were matters that could not hold her attention for so long, and she desired the companion of a person who made the gears in her head turn and twist.

A name came to mind at that thought. But it wasn't like Jovan could exactly call upon the Opera Ghost to talk to her, could she? Besides, she knew that there were far more important matters that were worthy of his attention besides a stagehand like her.

* * *

Written on his face was a clear expression of mild distaste as Erik eyed one of the two beds closest to the door. While the bed was neatly made and the curtains were tied back to the bedposts, there was quite a mess atop the mattress. Several pieces of paper were scattered across it along with a pen and a capped inkwell. He couldn't help but sigh at the disorder before he returned his attention to the object he carried.

He held a pink rose in full bloom between his fingers, a black ribbon tied around its stem. Even with his gloves, he could feel the thorns on the part of its stem where he held it, but he couldn't be bothered the change the spot where he held the rose. It was a simple gift, but if one knew the language of flowers, the significance of the flower increased. Pink roses stood for grace, sweetness, and joy ― words that Christine Daaé embodied. Not to mention, the flower also stood for admiration, which was what Erik felt for the Swedish ballerina.

His heart swelled with pride at the very mention of the name of his pupil. The very first time he'd heard that voice of hers, he couldn't help but be reminded of an angel that had fallen from grace. She'd sounded as broken as she'd looked but, still, he saw the hidden gem in her juvenile voice. And ever since he 'revealed' himself as the Angel of Music to Christine in the chapel, he made it his goal to polish and shine to perfection the rough diamond that was her voice. Such a gift was just too precious to be left to waste.

Angel of Music. Erik was no angel, but he could be one to Christine if that was what she needed to help her spread her own wings.

With a small smile playing on his lips, he gently placed the rose down on Christine's nightstand. He didn't celebrate Christmas himself, even harbored a distaste for it, but he didn't want to miss an opportunity to give her another gift besides his lessons. If luck was on his side, Christine would see his little present later tonight on Christmas Eve. That was if she, Antoinette, and Meg had any plans to return to the opera house. They had left earlier in the morning, and as to where they had gone to and whether they were to return tonight, Erik had no clue.

He was about to make his leave through the mirror on the wall when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the chaos on Jovan's bed again. But this time, it was his curiosity that was roused and not his displeasure. He recalled the last time he met Jovan in the chapel when she'd said that she had writer's block. Was it possible that the block had been lifted since then?

Erik didn't mean to pry. Or, at least, he really didn't want to. But as he had predicted on the opening night of their last show, his curiosity was going to be the death of him. He found himself approaching her bed and, before he knew it, he held in his hands one of the papers that were scattered on the mattress. His eyes perused the lines in Jovan's messy handwriting.

 _I am drowning in worry this blurry December;_  
 _I don't want this to bleed on out into next year._  
 _In a daze, I am trying, struggling to remember,_  
 _How it was when my heart left no room for fear._

 _I just don't want the world to leave me behind,_  
 _At least wait till I put on my wings._  
 _Who doesn't long for bigger things?_

 _But I am anxious and envious_  
 _Of people who live like they'll die tonight._  
 _And I'm careless and restless_  
 _And I wish I could just close my eyes_  
 _And fly._

* * *

The cold December air caressed her skin as Jovan stood on the rooftop, which was blanketed with snow. Below her, the streets bustled with Parisians who engaged themselves with the affairs of celebrating Christmas. Jovan's face was a blank canvas, devoid of emotion as she stared out at the scene below. Christmas used to be mirthful occurrence that was worth celebrating, but as she gazed into the distance, Jovan realized that this was the first Christmas that she was spending without a single member of her family by her side.

Her hand flew to the necklace that she wore, a thin silver chain from which a small, round, white moonstone hung from. It had been a gift from Elea who had given it to her after she had gone to the rooftop on the night of her birthday. Besides the necklace and the photograph Monsieur Lefèvre gave her, Jovan received no other gifts. She wasn't even surprised because she hadn't even been expecting anything in the first place. Her hand wrapped around the small pendant as she closed her eyes, surrendering herself to the cool breeze that whipped around her.

"Away, and mock the time with fairest show. False face must hide what the false heart doth know."

The silence was shattered as she gave an amused shake of her head. Jovan didn't have to glance behind her to know who the owner of the voice was.

"Any reason why you're quoting Macbeth on this fine day?" she replied.

He clicked his tongue. "Didn't anyone tell you not to speak that name whenever you're in a theater?"

Jovan arched a brow. "Oh? Why not?"

"Uttering the name is said to be equivalent to wishing disaster upon the opera house."

Jovan couldn't help but finally turn around. The Phantom's dark and lean form was easy to spot among the snow and the white marble statues on the rooftop. He was donning his cloak and hat. He stood on a safe distance from the ledge so, Jovan reckoned, as to prevent himself from being seen by the people walking below.

"I didn't know you were superstitious, monsieur."

"I'm not. I was merely orienting you on the beliefs of the people who work in this place," Erik replied coolly.

"Hopefully, that is the only superstition I have to be aware of then?"

"Well, there is also this character that they like to call the Opera Ghost."

"The Opera Ghost?" Jovan decided to humor him. "Why, do you believe in ghosts?"

"I believe in myself, does that count?"

Jovan could not stop the chuckle that escaped from her lips. From the corner of her eye, she could see that a small smile had placed itself on Erik's lips.

"What about you, mademoiselle?"

"Do I believe in ghosts? Ghosts that haunt the halls at night? No. Ghosts that haunt from the past? Yes."

She could see that her words had piqued his curiosity. He arched a brow at her. "How unfortunate. Ghosts from the past are ones that you cannot exorcise."

"You can't escape from them either, it seems." Jovan found herself speaking with a bitter tone. She immediately shook her head and turned away from Erik.

"Indeed. So we learn to live with them instead."

Jovan found a sigh slipping from her lips. The melancholy of their conversation were finally getting to her and she quietly wondered who, between the two of them, had started the depressing subject. "Do tell me why we're discussing such a gloomy topic on one of the finest occasions."

"Because we have nothing better to do," was his sarcastic reply.

"Don't be a killjoy, Erik." The words rolled off her tongue before she could stop herself. Too late. Instead, she turned back to him and dared to reach a hand out as she beckoned him to come closer towards the ledge. "Come and look."

"There is nothing down there that I have not seen."

Jovan dropped her arm to her side as she rolled her eyes. "Suit yourself. I've got a wonderful view from here."

"What could be so wonderful about watching people walking down the streets of Paris?" he sneered.

"It's not that. It's..."

"What?"

"They all look so happy from up here."

* * *

Erik tried to ignore the way his heart clenched upon hearing her words. Rue and nostalgia were clear and evident in her voice as she spoke. He watched as Jovan turned her back to him again as her gaze returned to the streets below. Heaving a sigh, he decided perhaps coming closer to the ledge wouldn't hurt. He let his feet drive him until he was between Jovan and a nearby statue, his dark figure strategically concealed in the shadow of the looming statue. If she noticed his presence by her side, she made no sign of it.

He glanced disdainfully at the scene below him. "Happiness is fleeting," he muttered. "Come and look again once the holidays have passed, once they've returned to their mundane routines. See then if they still look as happy as they do right now from up here."

Jovan gave a shake of her head. "No need to, I know they won't be."

"Then why are we having this conversation?" Erik snapped.

She gave a shrug. "Because we have nothing better to do."

Her reply drove away the words on his tongue. He found himself at a loss for words as he stared at Jovan. Not for the first time, he wondered how someone had managed to create a creature as puzzling as the girl beside him. Clever, sentimental, and poetic all at the same time. Charmingly eccentric and, most of all, utterly unpredictable.

"You're dressed like a lady," he found himself saying his thoughts out loud before he could stop himself. The second he realized what he had done, Jovan was already looking at him, her brilliant green eyes ripe with amusement.

"That's because your sense of style put mine to shame, monsieur. I can't have you always looking spiffy while I wear trousers and a vest every time we meet," she answered in jest.

"I do pride myself on being very well-dressed, thank you very much." At his reply, Jovan gave a chuckle.

"Seeing that we're both appropriately dressed for the occasion after all, allow me to greet you on this most joyous day," Jovan said before she turned to face him. She held the fabric of her skirt with both hands as she lowered herself into a graceful curtsy. Erik found a grin pulling at the corner of his lips as he watched her. This girl was utterly unpredictable, indeed.

"I know not of whether you celebrate this glad affair, but let me be, hopefully, the first to greet you a Merry Christmas, Erik." As his name rolled off her tongue, a smile graced Jovan's features, and Erik knew then that he didn't have it in him to ruin the moment with a snide reply or anything of the like.

Instead, he took off his hat and gave a bow as he greeted her back. "And Merry Christmas to you as well, Jovan."

* * *

Author's Note: Yep, the word 'spiffy' was already around during this time period. The lyrics used for Jovan's poetry were taken from 'Fly Tonight' by Ylona Garcia. Please don't forget to review!


	14. Angel Of Music

Author's Note: The song that Christine sings here is 'Salvation' by Gabrielle Aplin. Thank you to my reviewers, followers, and the like! And to those people who read this story but don't leave reviews, WHAT ARE YOU GUYS DOING? *pokes you all with a stick*

* * *

( _fourteen_ )

 **ANGEL OF MUSIC**

* * *

 _1876_

* * *

Two hours after dinner, the staff of the Opéra Populaire were getting ready to retire for the night. Within Jovan's dormitory, Maeva and Tess had already fallen asleep while Jovan busied herself with reading. Her eyes were focused on the obituary column of the newspaper she held in her hands as she sat on her bed, her eyebrows knitted as her lips quietly moved with the words written on the paper, but not a sound escaped them.

She felt a weight press on her bed and she looked up to see Elea with a tired expression. "Who died?" the ballerina asked.

"No one important," Jovan replied as casually as she could.

Elea looked apologetic as she spoke. "Jo, do you mind doing me a favor?"

Jovan quickly folded the newspaper and put it aside on her nightstand as she gave a small smile. "You don't have to ask, you know."

"Would you kindly fetch Christine from the chapel? I know it's that day of the week, but I don't want her outside at this hour, especially after the incident with Sophie. I'd fetch her myself but my feet hurt too much from rehearsals today."

Jovan recalled an incident that occurred earlier that week where Madame Giry had caught one of the older stagehands trying to force himself on Sophie, one of the ballet rats, during a late hour. The girl had clearly wanted nothing to do with the stagehand, and the ballet headmistress had caught them just in time before anything could happen. They were found in a dark corner of the auditorium when Madame Giry was making a round of the opera house. The stagehand was immediately sacked the next day.

"Sure, give me a moment," Jovan answered and Elea thanked her with an apology for disturbing her before returning to her bed.

After putting on her dressing gown, Jovan went to grab her scissors from her nightstand for the sake of having something to defend herself with if she came across trouble. As she rummaged through her drawers, she saw that the object was nowhere in sight. Jovan tried not to think about her missing scissors too much at that moment and simply came to the conclusion that she had misplaced them. Instead, she took the letter opener from her second drawer before slipping out of the room.

Stepping into the corridors, she saw that none of the candelabras were lit and every inch of the place was covered with darkness. Jovan decided to use this to her advantage and hid herself in the shadows as she made her way to the chapel, so as to avoid bumping into anybody who could be roaming around. She managed in navigating through the corridors in the dark without fail, especially with a sight that had adapted quite well to the dark. Soon, she found herself in front of the entrance of the chapel.

Jovan saw that the door was shut from the inside as she tried to open it to no success. While she wanted to return as soon as possible with Christine, she didn't want to have to rudely interrupt the girl's prayers. Putting her hands against the door, she leaned against it and pressed her ear against the surface and listened.

She expected silence, or perhaps the soft whispers of a prayer being muttered, but Jovan was rather surprised to hear... singing?

Jovan pulled away for a moment to process what she just heard before she pressed back her ear against the door. Was that Christine _singing?_ Jovan had never heard the girl sing, and found herself in awe as she listened to the melodious voice behind the door. It was clear and soft, reminding her of the gentle ringing of small bells and the whistles of songbirds in spring.

" _You are the avalanche,_  
 _One world away._  
 _My make believing_  
 _While I'm wide awake._

" _Just a trick of light_  
 _To bring me back around again._  
 _Those wild eyes,_  
 _A psychedelic silhouette._ "

Jovan didn't realize that she had closed her eyes until she blinked them open in surprise. The singing had stopped, and Elea's request immediately came rushing back to her. She opened her mouth to call out Christine's name when she heard the girl resume her singing. But Jovan realized that she was repeating the lyrics and her pitch had changed. She decided not to dwell on it as she breathed in deeply upon pulling away from the door.

"Christine," she called out and she heard the girl fall silent. "Elea sent me to fetch you. I hate to interrupt you, but it's growing late."

The silence lasted for a minute before Jovan heard the door creak open and Christine's head popped out. Her cheeks were tinted red.

"I'm deeply sorry," she began as she stepped out of the chapel. "I didn't realize the time."

Jovan took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze as she began to led Christine away. "You don't have to apologize. We were worried for your safety is all."

As they began to walk away from the chapel, Jovan shot a glance behind her shoulder towards the entrance of the chapel. She saw that the room was dark, save for a spot that was illuminated by moonlight filtering through the stained glass window. She wanted to talk to Christine about her singing, but Jovan decided to save it for another time, content to drown in the silence of the night for the meantime.

* * *

Erik was set on causing havoc once again as he heard the new lead soprano, Clarisse Roques, stretch out a note out of proportion in the auditorium. The woman sounded like a damn banshee, for heaven's sake! Either the soprano was going to have to fix the way she hit her notes or she can say goodbye to her career before it could even launch.

He made his way through the tunnels hidden with the opera house's walls in silence. He considered writing another note but he put the idea aside in favor of letting the new soprano feel his wrath for the first time. The Opera Ghost had been silent for the past few months, and Erik decided it was time for him to make his presence known once more. He began to list off ideas of what kind of 'accident' he could create when he heard a loud and heated exchange between two people not far from his spot.

Erik followed the sound until he found himself before one of the numerous two-way mirrors scattered throughout the passageways. This one led to one of the dormitories. From his side within the hidden tunnel, the mirror was covered with a black curtain that gave the people who resided within the room some privacy ― Erik was a gentleman, after all. He was quick to recognize one of the voices as belonging to Jovan before he even pulled back the curtain.

He saw that the room was occupied by two people alone ― Jovan and one of the ballet rats, Elea Neveu. They were obviously in the middle of an argument, and it was not a pretty sight. Elea had a piece of newspaper in her hand while Jovan's hands were balled into fists. The ballerina suddenly waved the paper before Jovan's face and the redhead grabbed it before flinging it onto the floor.

"Maybe some _sick_ part of me wants him dead, how about that?" Jovan spat at her friend.

Elea had a scowl on her face. "No one else needs to die, Jovan. You can just―"

"Just what?" Jovan scoffed. "Come out of hiding? Is that what you were going to suggest? As if it were that _easy!_ "

"Then come clean! Tell the authorities what Rémi did―"

Jovan cut off the ballerina again as her voice lowered dangerously. "Don't you _say_ his name.

"...I'm sorry, it slipped," Elea sighed as she calmed down for a second.

"Come clean," Jovan bit out in an acid tone as she swiped up the newspaper from the floor. "And slander the family name? I don't think so!"

Erik tried his best to wrap his mind around all these new information that he was gaining from eavesdropping. He already knew that Jovan was hiding for some reason, but it was only now that he was getting a grasp of how thorny her situation was. What company where they talking about? Whose family name? Who was this Rémi that she seemed to despise?

He didn't realize that he had tuned out their voices until he heard a loud crash from within room. He saw that Jovan was standing a foot away from her nightstand and the lamp that had been on it now lied in pieces on the floor, shattered glass surrounding it. Elea had her back against the door with both her hands covering her mouth. Her eyes were watering, but Erik could not be sure whether it was out of fear of Jovan, or heartache for her friend's situation.

A heavy silence filled the room as Jovan dropped the newspaper on the floor. Erik presumed that out of anger, she had knocked the lamp from her nightstand. Jovan turned her back to the mirror in their dormitory and the sound that escaped her lips made Erik's heart sink. A sob strangled its way out of her throat as she rushed towards the door Elea stood against. The ballerina remained rooted to her spot but she opened her arms to wrap Jovan in an embrace as the redhead dashed to her. Jovan was deathly still in Elea's arms as the ballerina opened the door and led both of them out of the room.

Erik saw the moment as his chance to quench his curiosity about Jovan's plight, which seemed complex than he thought. All thoughts of tormenting the new lead soprano left his mind as he unlocked the two-way mirror and pushed it out of its place. His footfalls were silent as he stepped into the dormitory.

* * *

A few words of comfort were all it took to drive back the tears as Elea gave Jovan one last hug before she made her way back to the auditorium. But the real reason that kept Jovan from tearing at the seams again was because she refused to let herself fall apart again just because of some damn newspaper. She took a moment to compose herself outside the dormitories as she took in deep breaths, her arms wrapped around herself. In the auditorium, the sound of an aria being sung by the new lead soprano drifted toward her ears.

Once Jovan was able to regain her composure, her mind wandered to the mess that she had created back in her dormitory, after her temper had gotten the best of her. She would have to clean that up before anyone else could walk in and question what had happened. She gave a quiet sigh as she began to head back towards her shared room.

As she opened the door and entered, the sight that greeted her inside struck her cold. Erik stood a few feet away from her nightstand, the newspaper in his hands.

Her heart hammered painfully but she ignored the ache in her chest as she began to walk towards Erik with the intent of grabbing the paper from him. But when she was a mere foot away from him, her foot landed on a fragment of glass, and she stopped at the sound of it being crushed. He raised his gaze to her, and something about the look in his eyes told her that what she had in mind would not be a wise thing to do.

Jovan quietly sucked in a steadying breath as she backed a step away, careful not to break eye contact with Erik. Her mind raced to figure out how he had managed to enter the dormitory without her noticing and whether or not he had witnessed her fight with Elea. Her eyes flickered to the newspaper he held and she wondered whether he actually knew the significance of the item he held in his hands right now.

"I thought we agreed not to use the dead as muses," he remarked, his tone calm but devoid of any emotion that might betray his thoughts at the moment.

Jovan didn't know what to feel as he faced towards her the side of the newspaper that he had been reading ― the obituary column. She knew Erik didn't mean what he said about muses and such, but it was an opening for the topic that they were about to broach. She opened her mouth to speak, but could think of nothing to say as she found herself at a loss for words. Instead, she stepped to the side and sat herself at the foot of her bed, careful to keep away from the shards of her broken lamp. Her legs were stretched out before her.

After a brief moment, she felt Erik seat himself on the edge of her bed as he put the newspaper on her nightstand. She watched as he prodded one of the broken pieces of glass with his boot. Jovan knew that there was something that needed to be addressed within the room, but she wasn't quite sure what it was. Instead, she said the first thing that came to her mind.

"You said you were a musician."

* * *

Erik's attention was whisked away from the broken lamp to the girl seated on the floor. He arched a brow at her, wondering where the question had come from. It was the last thing that he expected to hear from her.

"I did, yes," he replied quietly.

"Do you sing or do you play an instrument?"

"Both."

Jovan blinked, the only way that she could convey her surprise in her emotionally exhausted state. Erik found himself wishing that that wouldn't be the end of their conversation ― after all, music was his passion. He longed to be prodded more about his talents in that area, but he kept silent, waiting for her next words. But he couldn't help but wonder where the sudden interest had come from. He hadn't even heard her sing just once ever since she arrived.

She brought one knee to her chest and rested both her hands above her knee. "That explains your sharp ear for spotting faults with the singers and the orchestra."

"Indeed, it does," he confirmed.

"How did you learn?"

"I taught myself. You could say that I was a prodigy."

"I'm not surprised."

"And how about you? Are words everything there are to you?"

He watched as hesitation played across her features, her cheeks slightly tinted by a red shade. Where had that even come from? Erik quietly berated himself. His words had surprised him as much as it did his current companion. But there was no going back. He could only hope that he hadn't hit a nerve and that he would receive an actual answer to his question, and not a witty retort or anything of the like.

"I... hold all kinds of art, especially music, with high regard, but I find that my talents only lie in one field ― writing."

"But what of music? Have you ever tried testing your abilities in that field?" Erik already knew that she had no musical talents, as she'd pointed out to Monsieur Lefèvre when she first arrived, but it didn't hurt to make sure.

She licked her lips. "I did, but my lack of interest in playing any instrument made it difficult for me to pick up on the ways to play them. And I can't pick up a tune to save my life. As a result, I find it hard to hit the right notes."

Erik watched her as she spoke and saw that something about answering his question troubled her, if there was something to be read out of how restless she was acting. Her fingers were drumming against her knee and her gaze kept on moving from one place to another. He tried to fathom a reason behind her behavior and what was it about music that put her on edge. Was she _that_ ashamed of her lack of any musical talents?

"And you find yourself wishing that that were not the case," he stated.

"Of course! I mean, who wouldn't?"

"Why would _you_?"

"...My father."

Erik arched an brow. What did her father have to do with their subject? But he decided not to reply, hoping she'd take his silence as a sign to continue what she had on her tongue. And she did.

"My father. He... he used to sing. He was a lead tenor."

"He was?"

Jovan glanced at him with a soft look in her eyes. "He used to work here."

* * *

She trusted him, didn't she? Of course she did ― their current conversation was proof that she did. Her talents, or rather lack of, in the field of music was always a subject that left her flustered, and yet, there she sat, just having spilled how incompetent she was with music. And to open up like that to a self-proclaimed musician and a prodigy ― it was _shameful_. Did he think any less of her now? Jovan hoped not.

And then there was the subject of her father. Now that she thought of it, telling him certain details of her life didn't seem too bad of an idea. Besides, she doubted a man somehow living within the Opéra Populaire would have a lot of people to gossip with, much less those who were part of high society. And when he'd interrogated her back in the chapel those months ago... now that she thought of it, he did have every reason to be worried if she did pose a threat to the opera house. The Opéra Populaire was his home, after all.

She searched his eyes and saw surprise in them with an unmistakable glint of curiosity. "What was his name?" he inquired.

"Raphael. He worked here long before I was born, and, from what I'm told, he was quite the performer."

Erik gave a hum, a trace of a grin on his face.

Jovan felt a flutter in her chest. This... this wasn't so bad after all. She felt as if the weight in her chest had grown lighter, even if it was just in the slightest bit. Maybe opening up wasn't as bad as she thought. Her thoughts drifted back to Elea, the ballerina and her friend since childhood. Her one and only confidante, since even Mateo didn't know of the truth behind her stay at the opera house. _Oh, Elea_. Jovan knew she ought to apologize to her later after her display of anger. Her eyes darted to the smithereens of the lamp she had broken. Elea had honestly looked terrified for a split second when Jovan had given in to her temper...

She heaved a sigh. Her anger and her tears were two things that she knew she had to control more if she wanted to survive. An intake of breath, and Jovan managed to calm the torrent of voices in her head. She didn't want to have to deal with them at the moment. For now, all she wanted to do was to continue her conversation with Erik. What were they talking about again? Ah, yes ― music.

Speaking of music...

"May I hear you sing?"

She watched with a hint of amusement as surprise flooded his amber and green eyes once more. Erik arched a brow at her. She gave a shrug of one shoulder before she switched her gaze to the door of the dormitory, and there her eyes stayed. Until the sound of a soft note drifted to her ears.

* * *

Erik stilled at her request as he stared at her in surprise, one eyebrow arched at her. His eyes did not leave her even as she gave a shrug and let her gaze drift back to the door of the room. Where had _that_ come from?

He blinked. At this point, he really shouldn't be too surprised now of the things that left Jovan's mouth. He'd observed that the girl had a habit of saying out loud whatever words were on her tongue and mind at the moment, even if she sometimes came to regret what she'd said (much like him, sometimes). He shook his head as he thought over her request when a thought came unbidden from the back of his mind.

What of _that_ night? The opening night where she had gotten drunk and he had sung her to sleep? Erik felt a stab in his heart as he realized that there was a good chance that she remembered nothing of what had transpired on that night. But he couldn't bring himself to believe it ― couldn't she remember even at least one moment? Their proximity in the corridor? Her questions about Ayesha? His challenge for her, her plan to sacrifice him, how she cried into her pillow, the lullabye that he sang for her ― _anything_ at all?

He shook his head when he noticed that Jovan was still silent, probably waiting for his reply. He surfaced back to reality and felt like berating himself. Why did he even care if she remembered?

But he did care, didn't he? He didn't know exactly when, where, or how, but it was just suddenly there ― the fact that he _cared_ about her. _Her_ , the very first person who had the nerve to engage him in a conversation at first sight. She didn't run away, no. Instead, she had stayed and talked to him. She didn't treat him like a ghost at all, but she saw him as a human.

And who else had shown him that kind of light in his world of darkness? Besides Antoinette, besides a few faces during his adventures around the world... no one else.

And damn him if he was going to deny her such a simple request, a chance to once again share his gift of music to her.

And so, Erik sang to her.


	15. Wanderer

Author's Note: Thank you, THANK YOU so much to everyone who followed and reviewed! I got a really overwhelming and positive response from you guys last chapter and, God, was I so happy! As for this next chapter, I had a real blast writing it. I think you guys will love this. Enjoy!

* * *

( _fifteen_ )

 **WANDERER**

* * *

Sunday mornings were always quiet in the opera house, save for this particular morning perhaps. Jovan peeked her head out of the door of the dormitory to see what the commotion was about when she recognized Julien, one of the male dancers, running down the corridor only to be stopped by Sara, a member of the ballet corps. Behind Julien were Ilyes and another stagehand who were doing their best, along with Sara, to calm down the panicked dancer.

"I SAW HIM!" Julien exclaimed to Sara.

"It was just a shadow, man," Sara tried to reason.

"Yes, but it was a shadow in the shape of a man! It was the Opera Ghost!"

"Julien, it's Sunday morning, you could've seen―" the other stagehand, whose name Jovan couldn't recall, began but was cut off.

"I _know_ what I saw!"

"See, this is why you go to church," Ilyes commented with an air of amusement.

"I KNOW! I promise I'll go next week!" Julien answered before storming off. Sara, Ilyes, and the other stagehand followed him as Jovan watched after them, a grin threatening to pull on her lips. Just how gullible did the staff of the Opéra Populaire have to be? With a shake of her head, Jovan closed the door and retreated back to her empty dormitory.

Sunday mornings also meant that for the first few hours of the morning, almost every room would be empty and silence would be abound. Save for Jovan, the four awhile ago, and few more handful of the staff, the employees of the opera house would be out attending mass. Jovan mused though that their number would grow less by one person if Julien truly meant what he'd said that he would start attending mass starting next week after his run-in with their resident ghost.

Her mind strayed to their infamous Opera Ghost and Jovan just had to wonder whether he was a man of God. On that matter, she simply had to place her bet that he was not a religious man. She couldn't imagine him being one, no. And especially not after he used the chapel both as an interrogation room and a place to teach her about passion.

As she buttoned up her shirt, her eyes darted around the empty dormitory. All of her roommates had left earlier to attend mass and she doubted they'd be back anytime soon. Almost all of the ballet corps had a tendency to stay out until evening came; they'd spend their time shopping or strolling in the parks, making the best out of a Sunday before rehearsals would resume the next day.

Jovan would tag along with them but aside from the fact that she didn't want to be sighted by anybody who could recognize her, there was the fact that she was an outcast from the rest of the opera staff. Besides a handful of people who actually liked her at best and tolerated her at worst, Jovan was not exactly someone majority of the opera staff wanted to be associated with. She didn't blame them. She cross-dressed, she was volatile, and she was the only female stagehand. Hardly a criteria for someone one would want around them.

Maeva's words came back to Jovan. _It's all gone down the gutter, darling._ Jovan shook her head, knowing that her roommate was right regarding her reputation.

Once she was done with her outfit ― trousers, boots, and a white shirt without her usual vest ― Jovan sat back on her bed and stared blankly at the empty space around her. As much as she enjoyed resting on Sundays, it was only so long before boredom overwhelmed her. She found that happening to her at that very moment. She had woken up early that morning, early enough to help Elea and Tess into their dresses before they left for mass. After that, she had failed to return to sleep and was left to spend the next hour writing in bed until she'd heard Julien running down the corridor outside.

Jovan gave a groan, growing restless by the minute. She even found herself wishing that Erik would happen upon her at that very moment, and perhaps she could try pushing a few of his buttons with talk of his religious beliefs.

She internally slapped herself. Where had _that_ come from?

But she could not lie to herself. She did enjoy the Phantom's company even if his temperament was as mercurial as hers. They were an erratic pair, and the encounters they had were more so. Ever since he had obliged her request to hear him sing, the moments that they would have to themselves increased in number, no longer spaced apart by months or weeks, but mere days. When no one was around, he'd come out of the shadows of the rafters to point out to her something about the pulleys, along with a droll comment or two. More than once had she arrived to the dormitory earlier than the others after dinner and found him waiting inside, after which he'd scold her lightly about how she had zoned out again during rehearsals, or how she was a second too late in her cues. But, sometimes, he merely came to chat with her.

It was amusing, really. Who knew that the feared Phantom of the Opera would turn out to be such a clever yet sardonic man? Granted that he obviously preferred to keep to himself, Jovan enjoyed for now the air of mystery that surrounded him. Then there was his conceited side, although Jovan thought that he had every right to be proud of himself if he was indeed as brilliant as he claimed to be. And, so far, she had seen nothing that showed otherwise.

 _Musician, artist, magician, inventor, architect, ventriloquist.._. As her thoughts ran in circles around Erik, she couldn't help but wonder if her theory about his whereabouts was correct. All logic pointed that he did dwell within the Opéra Populaire and she had figured out as much, but how or where exactly, she couldn't yet fathom.

 _In my opera house, walls have ears and doors have eyes._ If she were reading his words correctly, then he must have some sort of secret passageway (or should it be passageways, plural form?) that was hidden within the walls of the opera house. It would explain how he'd been able to get inside the dormitory and the chapel without passing through the visible entrances during their previous encounters.

Jovan stood up from her bed and paced towards the center of the room, her mind whirling and her eyes scanning her surroundings. He had a secret entrance! Her mind couldn't help but race in excitement at the very prospect of it, but as she scrutinized every inch of the dormitory, she couldn't help but grow frustrated with each passing second. There were no panels in the wall or the ceiling or the floor, no outlines of anything that could be an indication of a secret door. Was she wrong? She couldn't be!

She huffed a sigh and saw that she stood a few feet away from the wall mirror. It was the only full-length mirror they had in the dormitory and it stood in the center of the wall that was opposite where the door was. Jovan stared at it with narrowed eyes, not to inspect her reflection but the mirror's design. Like every other wall mirror in the dormitories, it stood against the farthest wall. This one was framed with brass and was elaborately designed with swirls and spirals.

The possibility crossed Jovan's mind and she marched closer to the mirror until she was only inches away from it. Could it be? She ran her fingers down the intricate design of the brass frame before she peered closer between the wall and the mirror. With both hands, she grasped the edge of the mirror and gave it a weak tug. The mirror stayed in place, not even budging one bit. She tried to pull the mirror away from the wall with greater force but her attempt was fruitless.

So the mirror was stuck to the wall. That fact was enough to confirm her suspicion that this was the hidden entrance towards her dormitory. A smile curved her lips as she began to examine the mirror's ornate brass frame, her fingers running through every swirl and spiral in hopes of finding something that could unlock the entrance.

* * *

The sound of an alarm broke the silence as Erik dropped his pen to massage his temples. The shrill ringing could only mean that another miscreant had somehow found one of his secret entrances or even landed themselves beneath one of his trapdoors. This was an extremely rare occurrence but it was one that Erik didn't want to have to deal with at that moment, not when he already had the misfortune of running into one of the members of the dance troupe earlier that morning, which had resulted in the poor fool scampering away from him in fright. Didn't anyone go to church on Sundays anymore?

With a grumble, Erik rummaged through the numerous drawers of his desk before he finally found a small bottle of chloroform. He then stood up from his bench and picked up a rag from somewhere before striding towards the tunnel where the alarm had come from. He didn't even bother to put on a a jacket or a cloak, wanting the situation to be immediately done with. All he'd have to do was to render the intruder unconscious before he could drag them back to the world above.

As he trudged through the tunnel, Erik recognized the passageway as the one that led to the dormitories. As he made his way through the darkness, careful to avoid the various traps that he had lying around, he saw that whoever it was that triggered the alarm had not yet made their way past one of his hidden entrances, if there was something to go by the silence that resounded in the tunnel. One by one, as he came across by them, he pulled back the curtains that shielded the two-way mirrors, but saw that each dormitory was empty. He was about to pull away the next black curtain when he heard it.

"Good God."

Erik blinked as the voice echoed off the tunnel walls, unmistakable by its familiar husky quality. He felt his heart stutter as he pocketed the bottle of chloroform and the rag. He let go of the curtain in his hand and walked towards the source of the voice, stepping over one of his trapdoors. He almost refused to believe his own ears. Could it be?

The sound of the rapid approach of footsteps towards him stilled him and before he knew it, something ― or, more likely, _someone_ ― collided against him. He took a step back to steady himself as he instinctively reached out to grab the arms of the person before him. She gave a startled gasp.

"Erik?" Jovan asked.

In the dark, Erik had no trouble making out her stunned features. There was a smile on her face, a triumphant and a rather smug one. He gave a look of disbelief as he tightened his grips on her upper arms.

 _This girl..._

"Are you mad?" he seethed. "You could've gotten yourself into a trap!"

The smile vanished from her lips and was replaced by a frown. Jovan pulled herself away from Erik's hold and he let her go. "A trap? You have traps here?"

Erik simply gave a snarl as he turned away from her and walked toward the entrance to her dormitory. When he approached it, he saw that the two-way mirror was locked in place. How did she even manage to unlock it in the first place? He shook his head at himself as he felt Jovan approach him.

"These are all two-way mirrors, aren't they?" she asked him, gesturing to all the entrances hidden by black curtains that were all on one side of the tunnel.

"You're not blind, are you?" he retorted with mild irritation. In all honesty, Erik didn't know whether to feel admiration, worry, or exasperation towards the girl beside him upon realizing that she had finally found one of his secret entrances. What was he honestly going to do with this girl? He really didn't think that she'd take on his challenge when he'd told her to find out where he lived. He didn't even think that she'd remember him giving her the challenge alone!

He blinked in surprise as the realization dawned on him. She remembered? He turned to her and was about to ask when he saw that Jovan was no longer by his side. He looked further down the tunnel and saw that she had left him behind and was walking in the darkness just fine. Quite fine, actually. Was she really able to see that well in the dark? It wasn't actually that dark, seeing there was little light filtering through the black curtains veiling the dormitory mirrors, but still... He had so many questions but he had none of the answers and it was beginning to get on his nerves.

With a roll of his eyes, Erik began to walk towards her when he realized that she was only a few steps away from a trap. Ice shot through his veins as he broke into a run. When she was within his reach, he stretched out his arm and grabbed hers, pulling her away from the trap. But Erik realized his mistake too late ― he had pulled Jovan away from the trap and towards him with too much strength. She lost her balance and toppled towards him.

"What―"

Jovan turned towards him with an unexpected force as she lost her footing. Her hands landed against his chest as she slammed against him, and before Erik could process what was happening, his back made contact with the ground. A groan left his lips while a startled cry left Jovan's.

Every inch of him screamed in pain for a second. His heart hammered hard in his chest and his bloof roared in his ears. As he assessed what just happened, he realized that he was lying on his back on the cement floor of the tunnel while there was a weight on his chest. Jovan was pinning him down, her body pressed against his and her hands tightly clutched to the fabric of his poet's shirt, her thumbs grazing the skin of his chest.

Her face hovered above his by a few inches and her green eyes were as wide as saucers. His breath hitched at their proximity.

"I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed and Erik was quick to notice the color rushing to her cheeks. He'd never seen her blush before and it was quite a sight.

"You reckless girl," he bit out as Jovan sat up. But she only made matters worse as she ended up straddling him. Erik felt his face heat up.

Jovan groaned as she climbed off him as quickly as she could before standing up, leaning against the wall for support. Erik followed suite as his hand flew to the deformed part of his face. But he felt the smooth porcelain in place and relief flooded him; despite what happened, the mask hadn't fallen off. He proceeded to smooth out his shirt and his hair while the redhead did the same.

Erik knew he ought to scold her but he was out of breath. "Just what on Earth were you doing?" he hissed.

She gave a deep inhale. "We had an agreement, don't you remember?"

His eyebrows furrowed as he stepped closer to her. "Agreement?"

"I mean ― your challenge," she huffed. "I... what's her name again? Was it Ayesha ― yes! Ayesha! I would like to meet her."

Erik scoffed as he pieced together what she meant. Was he in a dream? He really didn't think she'd remember that! But apparently she did, seeing that she did just speak about his 'challenge' for her.

"You took that seriously? How do you even remember that?" he queried, trying to minimize the shock lacing his tone.

"How could I not?" she retorted.

"You were drunk!"

He watched as Jovan shook her head as a chuckle rolled off her tongue. That's it, Erik thought. He quit. This girl was utterly unpredictable. He swore to himself that, starting from this moment onward, he would stop guessing what her next words or actions would be. He watched with a blank expression as she caught her breath in the darkness of his tunnel.

"By the way, what happened back there? Why did you pull me back like that all of a sudden?" she inquired with an arched brow.

"You were about to step on a trap," he simply answered, refusing to let his mind wander back to the aftermath of his actions.

"Oh," she replied, looking behind her shoulder towards the spot on the floor where she had almost stepped on had Erik not pulled her back. There was a small panel on the cement floor that was ten inches in height and width with small holes dotting it. Erik had designed it that when someone placed their foot upon it, it would trigger a column of fire to erupt from below.

Jovan turned her back to Erik as she proceeded to step over the panel. She looked back at Erik who simply gave a nod before he followed in her footsteps, careful to step over the panel as well. He was beside her once again.

"So... are you going to lead the way?" she quietly asked.

Erik sneered. "I believe that my terms were for you to find out where I live. So far, all you've found is a passageway."

Jovan scowled, crossing her arms over her chest. "That's hardly fair, seeing how you designed this tunnel like an obstacle course. I'll be dead long before I reached your home."

"Oh, dear me. But that's your problem, not mine." With that, Erik began to walk away from Jovan. As he skipped over another trap, he heard Jovan's footsteps behind him, and he turned to see that she had skipped over the trap as well. He narrowed his eyes at her, and she stopped in her steps to meet his gaze.

"You said that this was my problem," she began to explain. "This is my solution."

"No. I will not allow this," Erik replied as he grabbed her wrist and began to walk her back towards the opposite direction. He tried to pull Jovan away with him but she stood rooted to her spot.

"Do you have any intention of keeping your word?" she whined, pulling away her wrist but Erik refused to let her go. She only succeeded in pulling him closer towards her.

He rolled his eyes. "To keep my word means teaching you how to avoid my traps and to lead you to my home, something that can only happen in your wildest dreams."

"I thought we trusted each other," Jovan grumbled, and Erik froze at her words. Trust?

She _trusted_ him?

A humorless chuckle rumbled in his throat but he couldn't find it himself to spit out the venomous words that sat on the tip of his tongue. _Trust? Trusting me is the biggest mistake you can ever make._ But the words didn't come, and Erik even found himself doubting his own words. Was trusting him indeed a mistake? Or was it something he just wanted to say in order to keep her away?

Instead, his voice lowered into a solemn whisper. "You trust me?"

Jovan looked taken aback by his question, but she also seemed to consider his words for a second. "I ― yes, I do."

Erik heard himself scoff. "You trust _me_? The feared Opera Ghost? Have you lost your head, you foolish girl?"

She narrowed her gaze at him. "My head's right here on top of my shoulders, thank you very much. And no, I don't trust the Opera Ghost. But I trust Erik."

And just like that, with those four words that left her lips, Erik felt the walls around him crack. God was indeed cruel if he woke up now, if this all turned out to be dream. But the moment was truly real as Jovan stood before him now. She felt real as he held her wrist in his hand. She trusted _him_? Even after he'd taken advantage of that same damning conviction by luring her into the chapel to interrogate her?

He felt his heart clench as an unfamiliar feeling filled his chest. He could find no name for this feeling and knew nothing of it, except that it was warm and that it left a buzzing in his head and quieted the villains in his mind. It was a pleasant feeling, knowing that someone trusted him, someone new for a change. Someone who wasn't Antoinette, and not someone who simply trusted him because he had disguised himself as an angel.

Without another word, he let go of Jovan's wrist but found her hand in exchange. He realized he wasn't wearing any gloves, and the unfamiliar sensation of someone else's skin against him was an unfamiliar but soothing one. Her hand was warm in his as he gently wrapped his fingers around her, careful not to be rough or too tight in his grasp. Then he turned to the direction that led to his home.

"Follow me."


	16. Keys To The Heart

Author's Note: To all my lovely reviewers, I never get tired of saying it but thank you, thank you! Your comments all inspire me to keep the words flowing! And to see all the really positive feedback on how I portray Erik is heartening! He is, after all, a really complicated character to write, so to see you people praise my portrayal of him just makes me want to burst into tears of joy!

And for those who are still doubtful, this fic does _have_ a plot and will fuse with the film's events in the future ― of course, obviously with a few changes to the plot here and there along with influences from the musical. I just like to burn things slowly so the characters and relationships can be firmly established and fleshed out first!

Prinzessin Mia: Your review is the longest one that I've received ever on this website! It's really overwhelming and thank you so much for your words and the time you took to review! Hmm, I already have definite plans for how I want every character's relationship with one another to go for this story's end and I can only hope that I deliver justice on what I chose to do with Christine and Erik's relationship!

An Echo In Time: Oh my God. I didn't realize but yes, it does!

* * *

( _sixteen_ )

 **KEYS TO THE HEART**

* * *

Jovan could not believe her luck. Here she was, down in the cellars of the Opéra Populaire, hand in hand with the Opera Ghost as he led her down to his home. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine this happening to her. Even as she went deeper into the bowels of the opera house, the only thing that kept her convinced that this wasn't a dream was the feeling of Erik's hand holding hers. That felt _real_.

She crossed over another trap, following in Erik's steps as he watched her in the dark. "How many traps do you have down here?" she huffed.

"Don't worry. That should be the last one. At this point, with all the traps we've come through, I doubt anyone would survive past this point without my guidance." And with that, Erik finally let go of her hand.

"And so we go past the point of no return," Jovan mused out loud.

"I noticed that you seem to have no problems navigating in the dark. May I ask how?" he asked as they approached a staircase that they began to descend upon.

"You may. I trained myself actually," she answered honestly.

"Enlighten me."

"Back... home, I trained myself to read in the dark without candlelight first, just by moonlight behind the window curtains. Then I progressed to exploring the house during new moons, or rooms where little to no light seeped through the windows. It took me years, of course."

Erik scoffed. "Of course it would."

Jovan simply shook her head as they reached the bottom of the staircase. She saw candelabras and torches lining the walls but none of them were lit. She couldn't imagine how someone could bear to live in a place so dark and dank, so far from the reaches of the sun and the world outside. Whatever in the world could be the reason behind this kind of isolation? And was it forced, or of Erik's own choice?

She noticed that, before her, Erik's pace had slowed down. She could only guess that they were near his home. She trained her gaze further and saw that the opening of the tunnel they were currently in had dim light emanating from it. As thrilling of an experience as it was to journey in the dark, being back in the light was a very welcome respite. As they neared the mouth of the tunnel, Jovan found herself not knowing what to expect. And then Erik stepped out of the tunnel, and Jovan followed shortly. The sight that greeted her took her breath away.

She was not expecting _this_. A large cavern with numerous grottoes, red curtains framing the archways. She saw that there were several full-length mirrors scattered about the place, but whether they were simply mirrors or more passageways, she was unsure. Most of them had red curtains haphazardly covering them. Music sheets littered the floor of the cavern and the desks, divans, and armchairs. Jovan couldn't help but be stunned at the sight before her. There was even a lake! And candles and candelabras... there were so many candles...

She huffed as the smell of candle wax overwhelmed her senses for a split second. Then she realized that Erik had gone ahead of her and was busy gathering the sheets that were scattered upon ― was that a pipe organ? Jovan realized that she had stopped in her steps, and she began to walk away from the mouth of the tunnel hidden in a deep recess of the massive cavern before her. As she looked back, she saw more red curtains framing the passageway from which they had come just from.

"Why so silent, mademoiselle?" Erik called out to her.

"I'm awestruck is all," Jovan answered, clearing her throat. "You have fine taste, monsieur."

She watched as he gave her a bow before proceeding to climb down the stairs that lead to his pipe organ, a bunch of music sheets in his hand which he quickly discarded on a nearby settee. That was when she spotted the breathing ball of fur on the same settee, its eyes shut tight as Erik passed by it.

With a small gasp, Jovan let her feet take her towards the settee, careful not to step on any of the sheets on the floor. She ignored the look Erik gave her as she passed by him and she stopped before the settee, falling to her knees as she observed with wonder the Siamese cat that lied asleep before her. The feline was colored cream and a rich dark brown. Jovan's lips curved upward as the cat stirred awake.

"I see you've spotted Ayesha," she heard Erik say as he walked to her side. "You have seen a cat before, yes?"

"Of course I have!" Jovan replied, shooting him a glare before she returned her gaze to the cat. She was wide awake now and, upon being greeted with a strange face before her, her back arched and she backed a step away from Jovan. The redhead chuckled; it had been too long since she had gotten this close to a domestic animal.

"You're a spoiled little thing, aren't you?" she observed as her eyes spotted the silver chain that hung around the feline's neck where small white gems dangled from it. For now, she just had to deal with the fact that the cat clearly disliked her, but Jovan didn't expect anything else. Felines were fickle creatures after all, and she was well aware of their nature. She'd just have to work for the cat's approval over time.

"I presume that you had a cat before?" Erik asked.

Jovan stood to her feet as she faced him. "I did, yes. Her name was Eden and she was a Burmese cat. All black with golden eyes. I picked her off the streets when I was seven, I think." A smile ghosted on her lips in remembrance of her old companion who had died two years before she moved to the Opéra Populaire.

He gave a hum. "That explains a lot of things."

Jovan's attention was claimed next by the bookshelves in a corner where a vast collection of books were displayed on. Striding across the cavern, she became aware of Erik trailing behind her. As she approached the shelves, she gently ran her fingers on the spines of the books before her, her eyes perusing the numerous titles. Her lips were parted in a small smile of excitement.

"These... science, architecture, mathematics ― you have everything here! I ― is that Farsi?"

Erik chuckled as she carefully pulled out a book. She opened it and gently leafed through its pages. It was as if she were handling a glass figurine, and her eyes were wide with wonder and curiosity as she devoured the words on the pages.

"What languages do you speak?" she wondered out loud as she glanced at Erik.

"French, English, Italian, Russian, German, Farsi, Latin. I've been to many places."

Jovan blinked. "I only know French, English, Italian, and a bit of Latin."

"I could help with your Latin."

"I would like that, yes. Thank you," she answered as she shut the book close and returned it to its place. She tried to ignore Erik's stare at her, which was probably the result of her immediate agreement to his offer of teaching her Latin. Or, maybe, he was surprised that he even offered ― Jovan was too. Shrugging, she returned her attention to the shelves and began to scour through the titles once again.

This time, she took notice of the pieces of fiction on his shelf. Among the names that she spotted were Tolstoy, Homer, Poe, Dumas, Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Alighieri. Her mind raced at the titles that she saw, and Jovan itched to take one of them and read them on the spot, but there would be a time for that later. Well, that was if Erik ever gave her another chance to visit his home.

Biting her lip, she finally broke her gaze away from the bookshelves and turned to Erik who had stood behind her the whole time. He arched a brow at her.

"Fine taste, indeed," Jovan commented as she passed by him and walked towards the lake. She ran her fingers down a nearby candelabra and took a moment to take in her surroundings once more. She was well aware of the salary the Opera Ghost demanded once a month, a sum of twenty thousand francs. She reckoned that he must have spent a good amount of his salary in decorating this place. This haven, this lair of his.

It amazed her how Erik was able to create beauty out of the dullness of the cellars and the cavern. But that was perhaps another one of his talents ― creating beauty where it could not be found. Now that she thought of it, she realized that everything that surrounded him was pleasing to the eye. His aesthetic was satisfying to the senses as Jovan saw that he liked to surround himself with beautiful things.

A soft note broke the silence before it was followed by several others, creating a mellow tune that rang out in the cavern. Jovan turned behind her to see that Erik had sat himself on the bench before his organ and was playing. Her feet began to lead her towards him and, as she neared him, she grew mesmerized by the grace and agility of his fingers as they danced across the keys of the organ. He played with such confidence and dexterity that it made her wonder, not for the first time, what he was doing down here when she thought that his place was up there, in the opera house with the orchestra.

Before she knew it, she had climbed up the steps leading to the organ. Jovan stood behind Erik as she continued to watch him, transfixed by his playing. Not only that, but the music that he was playing was a delight to her ears, leaving chills crawling beneath her skin. It made her feel as if she were soaring, or perhaps falling. She didn't mind either ― all that mattered was the warmth that filled her chest at hearing the music. Jovan had to wonder whether he had composed the piece himself as she had never heard it before.

She reached out to touch his back when he flinched away from her touch, and she backed away a step to give him space. Erik stopped in his playing as he glanced at her behind his shoulder, a haze hanging over his eyes. Jovan was sorry to hear the music end but she just couldn't help her own curiosity.

"May I ask you something?" she inquired.

At her words, Erik gave a scoff. There was touch of bitterness to his tone when he spoke. "I reckon you're going to ask about the mask."

Jovan's eyebrows knitted in confusion until he angled his entire upper body towards her, granting her a view of the mask that covered one side of his face. The soft candlelight bounced off the white porcelain as Erik stared at her, waiting for a reply. But all Jovan could think was how she had long stopped wondering about his mask after the first time they met on the rooftop, during the onset of a storm. She had come to just accept it as a part of him, she realized. It no longer stood out to her after their second encounter and she hadn't given it much thought ever since.

She gave a furious shake of her head. "What? No."

His eyes betrayed him as Jovan watched surprise flicker in them, but his face was devoid of emotion. "What is it that you wish to ask then?"

Jovan blinked at him. Now that he had mentioned it, her thoughts strayed to the mask on his face, and her curiosity grew. But when he had mentioned the mask, she had noticed the acid note in his voice when he spoke. It was obviously a sensitive topic for him which Jovan decided not to bring up at that moment. Although her question might have to raise some questions about the mask all the same.

"Why live like this?" she asked.

One end of his lips tugged into a humorless smile. "Why not?"

"Erik, truly. Why? You're a genius, you've many talents and exquisite taste ― your place should be in the theater above us and not... here."

She watched as Erik stood up from his bench and began to take heavy and deliberate steps down the steps, his head bowed down. His fingers began to twist a gold band on his right little finger. Jovan knew then and there that she had hit a nerve, but she didn't know whether she was willing to take back her question. After all, curiosity was indeed her gravest sin.

His voice rang out, clear and cutting, as he had his back turned to her.

" _Stranger than I dreamt it_  
 _No, they couldn't dare to look_  
 _Nor bear to talk of me._  
 _This vile, ghastly visage_  
 _the Devil gave_ _―_ "

"Erik!" Jovan called out, unable to bear the words that were escaping his lips; they oozed with rue, shame, and anguish, his every word a dagger to her and himself. He stopped in his steps but didn't turn to face her as Jovan hurried down the steps and strode towards him. He had stopped before a mirror, a mass of red fabric draped over it.

His stare switched from the ground to her as she neared him, and her steps came to a halt before him. If Jovan was putting together the pieces of the puzzle correctly, then this seclusion from the world was brought upon by whatever he hid behind his mask. A vile, ghastly visage? It made sense ― why else hide your face if not for a deformity that marred it? But if the world shunned him for his mere outward appearance...

Jovan found herself scowling at the thought. She knew very well that the world above them was not a kind one, having experienced firsthand a handful of cruelties that fate chose to deal her. She pushed these thoughts away as she willed herself to focus on the man before her, his eyes downcast once more as he stood still before her, lost in his own thoughts.

But as Jovan parted her lips to speak, she realized that she had no words to say. Perhaps the moment called for mere silence. Besides, she doubted she could say anything to comfort him if his melancholy had rooted itself this deep. Instead, she took his hand, grasping it in hers, and led him back towards the organ. Erik let himself be pulled back to his bench and he found himself sitting down on it with Jovan by his side.

She gave a small smile. "Will you play something for me, please?"

* * *

She spent a good amount of time listening to the music Erik played on his organ which she later learned were his own compositions. She let herself drown in the beauty of his music while he seemed content and pleased to play for her. Her ears were graced with an assortment of tunes that had varying moods ― some were gentle, some were romantic, some were heated. Nevertheless, she enjoyed all of them and hoped to hear more from him on another day. She'd always appreciated music, but hearing Erik's own compositions was something that stood out to her. His music was a breath of fresh air that she didn't know she needed, and now that she had tasted it, she found that she couldn't help but long for more.

But the hours went by too fast, too fast for Jovan's taste. Soon, Erik told her that it was time for her to return, at one in the afternoon. She didn't even realize that lunchtime had passed by and she hadn't even had her breakfast yet. At hearing this, Erik immediately left her and came back a minute later with a rose red apple in his hands. This time, Jovan accepted it without any hesitation.

As they made their way back through the tunnels, Jovan did her best to remember where all the traps were as Erik guided her through them, the same thing she did on the way to his lair. The apple he'd given her was clutched tight in her hand as they traversed the passageways in the darkness.

"How did you manage to build these tunnels?" she asked as they climbed up a staircase.

Erik snickered. "Simple ― I pulled them from thin air! Did I not tell you that I'm a magician?"

"Really, Erik."

"Really, Jovan," he sneered. "I just made a few revisions with the blueprints when the Palais Garnier was being reconstructed into the Opéra Populaire."

With that, they continued their ascent into the opera house above them while Jovan was careful to keep up with Erik. Soon, they were in the same tunnel where they had collided into each other earlier. Jovan couldn't help but feel the heat rush to her cheeks at the memory of what Erik had done to keep her away from one of his traps and the aftermath of his actions. She made sure to skip over the last trap before the secret entrance to her dormitory. Ahead of her was Erik who was unlocking the two-way mirror from its place, the black curtain pulled aside.

"Erik, I want to tell you something," she said as she reached him. Her heart roared in her chest.

He paused as he turned to look at her. "What is it?"

"My real name. I ought to tell you it after what you've shown me today."

Jovan knew that there was no danger in divulging to him her real identity if he chose to isolate himself from society. Besides, it was one more thing to get off her chest before the weight she carried with her succeeded in pulling her down. She watched as surprise flashed across his face before his features contorted into an expression of irritation which puzzled her.

"Your real name? So you lied to me?" he said in a low voice.

"I ― what? No!"

"You said Jovan was your real name."

"It is," she said with a huff. "I didn't lie to you. Jovan is my second name."

"Oh," he simply whispered, the sound of it almost causing Jovan to chuckle. But she restrained herself from doing so as she watched his features soften.

"So, who are you, truly?" he asked, genuine curiosity tainting his voice.

"Nathalie," she answered with a smile. "Nathalie Jovan Sauveterre."


	17. New Faces

Author's Note: "Oh my God! But Nathalie/Natalie is one of the most common names for an OC in Phanfics!" Well, then that's probably why Jovan goes by her second name! (I may or may not be sarcastic) And no, that's not breaking the fourth wall. Is it? *incoherent grumbling in the background* This isn't Deadpool, so yeah.

crimsonbloodwitch: I cannot express how thankful I am for every review that you leave at almost every chapter! Really, thank you so much! I'm glad to hear you loved my description of Erik's lair, among other things ― your words mean so much to me!

Le Fantome: You have no idea how grateful I am for your reviews, for every word of them! Thank you so, so much! And that reveal just brings them one step closer to each other! Well, not _that_ close, since these two that we're talking about just happen to be a deformed antisocial genius and an eccentric secretive runaway, but it's progress!

* * *

( _seventeen_ )

 **NEW FACES**

* * *

Their latest production had resulted in a full house, an unparalleled delight for Monsieur Lefèvre as he raised his glass in a toast before the entire staff of the Opéra Populaire. Laughter and cheers rippled across the cast and crew members as they raised their own bottles and glasses in light of the success of their latest opera.

Jovan had decided long before the show started that she'd only have one glass of wine which Elea now offered her. The ballerina swore this time around that she'd keep an eagle eye on the redhead to prevent a repeat of her drunken stupor last time. As they participated in the celebrations backstage, Jovan couldn't help poke fun at her friend.

"Elea!" she called out to the ballerina through the music being played from a quartet of stringed instruments. "How are things with you and Aldrich?"

At the mention of her suitor, Elea blushed a deep red as she winked at Jovan. "Nothing but smooth sailing, my friend."

Jovan exaggerated a gasp at her friend's words. "Has he proposed yet?"

"What? No!" Elea giggled.

"Ladies!" they heard a familiar voice behind them and turned to see Mateo with a bottle of whiskey in his hands. "Edify me, won't you? What's the juicy gossip here?"

As he nosed his way between the two girls, Jovan couldn't help but chuckle at the stagehand's drunk antics. "But, monsieur, you seem far too drunk to be able to indulge yourself in a conversation."

Elea nodded in agreement as Mateo leaned against the ballerina while he reached for the beret on Jovan's head. With his free hand, he grabbed it and placed it atop his own head with a crooked grin. "Witness me," he told them before raising the bottle to his lips. He took a long swig from it, the alcohol burning down his throat, until his legs gave out below him and he crumpled to the floor.

The ballerina shrieked in amusement while Jovan swiped up the bottle of whiskey from Mateo's floor before it could hit the floor. She passed it on to the nearest stagehand before she joined in laughing at the state of Mateo. After a brief moment, both Elea and Jovan decided that it would be too cruel to leave the stagehand in the middle of the place where he could be stomped to death. They began to haul him away from the floor and brought his unconscious form towards the nearest corner.

The night progressed rather smoothly for Jovan. While she spent most of her time around Elea and, later on, Tess as well, she had to admit that she was having a good time even without alcohol buzzing in her veins. She took part in the merriment, dancing with a few of the more decent stagehands and even singing along with the rest of the opera staff, even if majority of them, her included, were off-key. But it was all good fun and, in the morning, she found that she actually enjoyed the night.

And then the performing nights finally ended, and Maeva Grosjean left the ballet corps along with four stagehands and two chorus girls.

* * *

Silent as a shadow, Jovan slipped in next to Mateo on the catwalk and perched on the edge, her legs dangling off. Mateo glanced at her before turning back to Ilyes who sat on his other side. A handful of the stagehands had gathered on the catwalk to watch below as they waited for the newcomers to arrive.

"I still don't know why Maeva left," Mateo remarked.

"Same reason why those six other people left ― misconduct," Jovan answered as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

It was the day after their break and it had been early in the morning when Monsieur Lefèvre had walked in on the opera staff during breakfast to clarify the reasons why he had fired seven of his employees the morning after their performances had ended. It was not per the Opera Ghost's request but of his own decision, he hadd announced. He had dismissed Sacha Gaudin for obvious reasons, two more stagehands after a ballerina had confessed to having been molested by them, another one for having missed his cues _thrice_ during one of their shows due to being inebriated, a chorus girl for always escaping rehearsals and another for talking back to the maestro, and Maeva Grosjean for bullying a handful of her coworkers.

Upon saying that he now intended to keep a closer eye on the behaviors of his staff, Monsieur Lefèvre made it a point to meet her gaze. Jovan panicked for a second before she realized that the last time she had shown misconduct was when she'd punched that stagehand, about a year ago and a day after Christine had arrived. There was also the incident with Elea and the lamp, which was more recent, but she doubted Monsieur Lefèvre knew about that. While she knew very well that she was practically a charity case and was only residing in the opera house under the good graces of Madame Giry and the manager, she also didn't want to give them a good reason to kick her out. It looked like she had not other choice but to keep a strict reign on her own temper from that moment on.

Jovan was dropped back to the present when she felt Mateo tap her shoulder. Her gaze dropped to the stage below her and she saw Madame Giry enter the scene with seven people trailing behind her, four females and three males.

Pulling a black ribbon from her pocket, Jovan began tying back her hair as the ballet headmistress introduced the newcomers one by one. The first was a a girl of eighteen who was to become the newest chorus girl. Next was a girl of sixteen and then a girl of Christine's age with strawberry blonde hair; both were to be the newest members of the ballet corps.

"Look at that," Mateo said beside her, pointing at the last female, a woman who seemed to be in her late twenties. "She's too old to be a chorus girl."

"No one's too old to be anything," Jovan retorted as Madame Giry introduced the last woman to be the new ballet mistress. Before any questions could be raised, Madame Giry clarified that the woman was to take her place only for the next production. Apparently, the ballet headmistress was going to leave for the next few weeks to attend to the funeral of a relative, and Monsieur Lefèvre had insisted that she might as well take the next few months off as vacation as a reward of sorts for the full house they had on opening night. It helped that Madame Giry had been working in the Opéra Populaire for decades, and the break was much needed and well-deserved.

Jovan wasn't comforted by the explanation Madame Giry offered. It just didn't seem right for someone else to take her place, even if just for a while, and it seemed that Jovan wasn't alone with this. She saw that many of the ballet rats had anxious looks on their faces as the new ballet mistress introduced herself as Madame Lavigne. Apparently, this wasn't her first time to work in the Opéra Populaire, the ballet mistress said as she took center stage.

"With all this misconduct shite going 'round, why's Joseph Buquet still here then?" Calvin, an English stagehand, exclaimed.

"I've not a single idea," Mateo huffed as Madame Giry introduced the three males as the new stagehands below them.

When inquiries erupted as to who was to replace the other chorus girl who was sacked, Madame Giry simply stated that it would not be a newcomer but rather someone from the ballet corps who was to be the replacement.

All the stagehands leaned in closer as the ballet headmistress announced the name of the lucky girl.

"Elea Neveu."

* * *

Erik watched from the rafters as the red-haired stagehand dashed down the stairs and ran towards the stage. There, she joined in the small crowd that had gathered around Elea before the stagehand tackled the ballerina in a hug, which Elea gladly accepted with a laugh. Jovan gave a laugh of her own as a smile lit up her features.

At the sight, Erik couldn't help but feel a tug at his heartstrings. He didn't think he'd seen Jovan this happy ever since she arrived in his opera house. She looked ecstatic about her friend's promotion, and it was a while before the two friends untangled themselves from one another. Even then, they were chattering excitedly as the other performers who surrounded them showered Elea with their congratulations.

He let his gaze wander next to the youngest of the newcomers, Hana Vidal, a strawberry blonde who was the newest member of the ballet corps, only a year older when Christine had arrived to the Opéra Populaire. He studied her as she conversed with the younger ballet rats, Christine and Meg included, and noticed the way that her shoulders were always squared and how she held her chin high. She walked about the stage as if she owned the place. From these alone, he could already sense trouble coming from the new girl. He could only hope he was wrong.

But as he watched Meg introduce herself as Antoinette's daughter and how Hana reacted to the revelation with narrowed eyes and a frown for a split second, he couldn't help but feel that he was going to be right.

* * *

"Adèle, you're not leaving, aren't you?" Elea asked, worry in her tone, as she entered the room with Jovan only to be greeted with the ballerina who had her things packed.

"Oh, no," Adèle assured them with a bright smile. "I asked Madame Giry if I could move to the next dormitory so I can be nearer Sana, since Audrey was sacked anyway. She agreed so I'm moving out. I hope you don't mind."

"No! Or course not." Elea answered as she proceeded to help the ballerina with her things and they both went out the door, and Jovan watched them go as she sank into her bed. She knew how close Adèle was to Sana and she understood her wanting to move into the vacant bed in Sana's dormitory which Audrey, one of the recently dismissed chorus girls, used to occupy.

The moment the door closed behind Elea and Adèle, it was opened again, and Tess and Christine slipped into the dormitory

"Suzanne Collet and Hana Vidal are going to move in with us," Tess announced to Jovan as she passed by her bed. The redhead recognized the first name belonging to the new chorus girl and the second name to the new ballet rat who was Christine and Meg's age.

As if they had received their cue, the door opened again to reveal two of the newest members of the opera staff. Suzanne, with her ebony black hair, entered first while Hana followed behind her.

Jovan braced herself for what came next; she already saw it coming a mile away.

Suzanne gave a scandalized gasp as her eyes landed on Jovan, drinking in the sight of her shirt, vest, and breeches as she sat on her bed. The redhead resisted the urge to roll her eyes ― this was the exact thing that she had to bear with on her first day working as a stagehand.

"What on earth are you wearing?" Suzanne exclaimed while Hana arched a brow at Jovan, a scowl on the younger ballerina's face. In the background, Tess gave a giggle at their reaction.

"Clothes. Men's clothes, to be exact," Jovan retorted with a shake of her head. She bit back a meaner response, remembering Monsieur Lefèvre's earlier announcement.

"And you're going to be staying in with us?" Hana grimaced.

"No. It's _you two_ who are going to be staying in with _us_." And with Jovan's reply, Christine joined in laughing with Tess. The two had absolutely no problems with the way Jovan dressed, realizing the practicality of her outfits in her occupation, so they couldn't help but be amused at the newcomers' reaction.

With a smirk playing on her lips, Jovan walked past the aghast Suzanne and the dismayed Hana as she exited the room.

* * *

In the darkness, Erik felt a smirk pulling on his lips as he watched Jovan's exchange with the newcomers before the redhead left the dormitory.

He could tell that there were going to be _very_ interesting developments in the months to come.


	18. Hiding Places

Author's Note: Last chapter, Erik and Jovan had no opportunities to speak with one another. Did anyone miss Erik and Jovan interacting? Because they're back in this chapter! Also, I advise all of you to hold on to your wigs. And remember folks, the Devil is in the details.

* * *

( _eighteen_ )

 **HIDING PLACES**

* * *

"What are you doing?"

The voice came from the shadows, and Jovan's gaze darted to the corner of the kitchen where an unmistakable dark figure stood. She brought down the mug of coffee from her lips and sucked in a deep breath to cool her lungs where the hot air of the coffee had burned them, triumphant in erasing all traces of sleep from her mind.

"Coffee," she simply answered, raising the mug she held in one hand for him to see.

"I prefer tea," Erik replied before he stepped out of the shadows and into the kitchen.

It was half past five in the morning, and almost all of the staff were still sound asleep. Jovan had rushed to the kitchen to quench an odd craving for coffee which she had conceived at five in the morning. It was a peculiar thing for her to suddenly be awake an hour before everyone else, and the moment she'd realized what time it was, she was unsuccessful in any following attempts to fall back asleep. So she just caved in to the urge of wanting coffee at an ungodly hour while she quietly wondered why she had woken up at such an early hour for a reason she couldn't fathom.

She resumed downing her coffee while she watched Erik pace around the kitchen. Her curiosity piqued, she brought her mug down again and spoke.

"What are you doing?" she parroted his question from earlier.

Erik stopped before a basket of pastries before he casually took two pieces of croissant. "Breakfast," he answered, stuffing the pastries somewhere behind his cloak.

Jovan simply gave a shake of her head before she raised the mug to her lips once more. It was too early for her to witness the Opera Ghost pilfering the damn kitchen while everyone else was asleep. Heavens, there was also the fact that she was still in her nightgown with only a dressing gown to give herself some sense of decency. This just had to be the strangest start to a day.

* * *

Two days. It had been two days since Antoinette had left the Opéra Populaire and two days since she visited him before she left for Cherbourg. Erik recalled fondly how she'd asked him to not only look after her ballet corps while she was gone but after himself as well. His pride would not let him admit it out loud but he actually missed the stern woman more than he expected.

Erik watched from the safety of Box Five as the new ballet mistress, Madame Lavigne, practiced the choreography for their newest opera along with the prima ballerina. He knew that the woman had worked in the Opéra Populaire before and was even a part of the ballet corps back when the opera house was still known as the Palais Garnier. Still, he couldn't help but regard her with a wary eye as she took over Antoinette's position in the absence of the ballet headmistress.

Behind the two women was the set master who was conversing with the lead stagehand, Amir Vacher; no doubt the two were talking about the set design and the scenery. Above them, stagehands wandered restlessly on the catwalks with nothing to do. He found himself searching for a certain red-haired stagehand, but after a moment, he saw that Jovan was not among her coworkers.

He felt his heart twinge at this realization before he pushed her out of his mind, and he shifted his focus to Monsieur Lefèvre who was busy talking with the newest patron, the Vicomte Collet. The man was the father of the newest chorus girl, Suzanne. Erik's hand flew to his pocket where his latest letter rested within. This time, it not only contained his usual comments and suggestions but also his warmest welcomes to the new performers and the new patron as well. He was simply waiting for the rest of the staff to arrive in the auditorium before he would send the letter.

At this, Erik realized that he was presented with a small problem ― Antoinette was not present to deliver his note. While he didn't mind dropping it himself from the rafters, he had hoped to have his letter delivered to Monsieur Lefèvre on that day so he could simply sit back, relax, and watch the reactions of the newcomers as he let them have their first taste of the Opera Ghost's presence. He grumbled as he told himself to simply deal with it. He'd just have to drop by the rafters later then.

The sound of the door to his box creaking open jarred him from his thoughts as he jumped to his feet. Now who was this rascal idiotic enough to steal a peek at the Phantom's box? As he slid away to the shadows to watch the intruder, Erik had a hunch that it was one of the new stagehands who had dared to invade his space. But he felt his temper cool down the moment he saw the mop of red hair on the intruder's head.

"Hello?"

Breathing a sigh of relief, Erik slipped away from the shadows to a spot where the stagehand could see him. "Yes, Jovan?"

He watched as her lips curved upward into a grin as she quietly slipped into the box and shut the door behind her. "I had a feeling I'd find you here," Jovan answered, running her fingers through her hair. Erik noted that the stagehand was without her beret at the moment.

"Marvelous guess, mademoiselle," he commented as he sat back down on one of the chairs while he felt Jovan linger behind him. She placed her hands on the edge of his chair, her fingers just barely brushing against his back. This time, he tried not to flinch away from her touch like he did last time.

"You wouldn't know where the ballet corps are, would you?" he asked.

"Still in the dormitories," Jovan answered.

"What's taking them so long?"

"Meg and Cassie are regaling the new girls with stories about you."

Erik gave a chuckle at the mention of the Little Giry's name. Meg had been left behind by Antoinette after the girl had stubbornly stood by her decision to remain at the opera house with Christine. The two were inseparable, andm upon hearing that Christine had to stay behind, Meg chose to remain with the Swedish ballerina, stating that she was now a 'big girl' and could take care of herself. It was only after Erik had promised to look after Meg and Christine in her absence was Antoinette able to leave with an eased heart. Although Erik had a feeling that because Meg was left behind, Antoinette now had a reason to cut her vacation short.

"And why didn't you stick around to listen, or perhaps even tell a story or two of your own?" he teased with a smirk.

Jovan chuckled behind him. "Their ghost stories pale in comparison to the experience of being in your company. Besides, I'm good at keeping secrets, and I doubt you'll appreciate me boasting about our meetings."

"But I did grant you bragging rights, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did."

Their conversation was cut short by the sound of chatter coming from the auditorium below them, and Erik glanced down to see the ballet rats finally entering in a file from the dormitories. They were unusually lively, given the early hour, but Erik suspected it had something to do with what Jovan reported to him. Well then, they had simply granted him the perfect opportunity to let his presence be felt, just mere minutes after they were exchanging stories about him. A smirk pulled on his lips. He was about to rise to his feet when an idea took root in his mind ― a _better_ idea than having to go to the rafters himself.

"Jovan? Would you mind if I asked you to do me a favor?"

He felt her hands let go of his chair as she glanced down at him. Erik turned to meet her gaze.

"A favor? You don't have to ask, you know," Jovan replied.

He arched a brow at her. "And why not?"

"Because you're my friend and... well, I'm used to doing favors for my friends."

It was not the time, Erik was well aware, but he felt his heart swell at the words that escaped her lips as he stared at her with a stunned expression. If he lost his composure now, he'd be choking on air. Her _friend_? He wasn't aware that God cared for him now. Or was this another one of His cruel jokes? He couldn't believe it, he just _couldn't_. Who could be foolish and reckless enough to offer their friendship to him?

Apparently, this red-haired enigma of a girl who stood before him now. This foolish, reckless girl...

"Friend?" he almost stammered. Just what sorcery did this girl possess that she _almost_ reduced him into a stuttering mess?

"What, the formidable Opera Ghost can't have any friends?" she snorted. "Spit it out, Erik."

His movements were mechanic as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope sealed with a red insignia, his signature skull. Jovan's eyes widened for a second before she took it from him, handling it like it was some fine china that could break with a single slip from her fingers. Erik could cackle at the stagehand's current state as she stood before him, blissfully unaware of the cacophony of voices in his head that were stirred from their slumber by a single word let loose from her lips.

First, she trusted him. Now, she called him her friend.

He was grateful. There was no other way to say it, nor to explain the way his heart stuttered in her presence. He'd only had Antoinette to call his friend up until this moment. He was grateful ― it was as simple as that, but so very intricate at the same time. It was the one thought he could fathom from the tangled mess that was his mind at the moment. He was utterly grateful that she had given the gift of her friendship to him, even if he thought that he was undeserving of it.

Erik was well aware that Jovan knew nothing of playing instruments but perhaps save one ― his heartstrings.

"To Monsieur Lefèvre, I reckon?" she inquired.

"Indeed. Do me the honor, won't you?"

* * *

The rhythm of her heartbeat was an erratic one as she made her way to the auditorium with Erik's letter in her hand. Life was turning out to be full of surprises for her at every turn she made these days, and most of them even had something to do with the Opera Ghost. At this rate, life couldn't be anymore baffling for a stagehand like her. She never knew how exhilarating it could be to work in the Opéra Populaire. And now, she was even friends with a ghost story, a pariah who isolated himself from society, practically a myth, a legend even! She didn't exactly know when, where, or how, but it was just so out of the blue when her mind decided that the word 'friend' fit in with the rest of the words that she associated with Erik.

Jovan was shaken out of her thoughts as she finally entered the auditorium, the voices of the performers and the crew members interweaving with each other as their chatter filled up the place. But as she neared the manager who stood in one of the aisles between the velvet seats, the noise gradually grew down as she felt the envelope in her hand draw in their attention, practically demanding it with the unmistakable wax skull that sealed it.

"Monsieur Lefèvre," she greeted the manager with a bow of her head once she was a foot away from him. He stopped conversing with the man beside him as he turned to Jovan.

"Oh, yes. What can I help you with?" Monsieur Lefèvre replied.

She held out the letter to him as she spoke. "I've a note, monsieur. I found it just outside Box Five as I passed by."

Jovan watched for the manager's reaction as he heaved a quiet sigh before he took the letter from her. Only then did she switch her gaze to the man beside him who she saw had his eyes glued on her, not on the Monsieur Lefèvre nor the letter he now held in his hands.

Her pulse escalated painfully as he narrowed his eyes at her. She stiffened as she realized that she was not wearing her beret, leaving her red hair in plain sight.

"Mademoiselle, I can't help but feel as if I know you from somewhere, but your name escapes me at this moment," the man said to her before he lost himself to his thoughts. Beside him, Monsieur Lefèvre's attention snapped back to him before his eyes widened in realization as to what was happening.

Jovan found herself silently praying to God that this man wouldn't recognize her as much as she didn't recognize him. Her eyes darted to Monsieur Lefèvre for a split second to plead for his help. She had made a grave mistake coming out here to deliver the letter without fixing her appearance first.

The manager cleared his throat, successful in claiming back the attention of the man. "Monsieur le Vicomte―" Good God, this man was a vicomte? A part of the aristocracy? "―This is Mademoiselle Rousseau, one of my employees."

Jovan watched as confusion played across the Vicomte's features, practically saw the gears move in his head as he searched the name within the recesses of his mind. But she already knew that he wouldn't be able to recognize it as belonging to anyone important or worthy of his attention, seeing as the name was not associated with any title. Jovan had made sure of that when she chose her alias.

"Ah, forgive me then, mademoiselle," he finally answered after a brief moment. Relief washed over Jovan as he gave her an apologetic nod of his head. "I mistook you for the daughter of one of my former business partners, Raphael Sauveterre."

Ice shot through her veins as Jovan's mind went blank at the mention of her father's name.

"Former business partner?" Monsieur Lefèvre piped up, genuine curiosity lacing his tone. God, this was _not_ the time. Jovan's jaw tightened.

"Oh, yes. I mean ― we're still in business with his company, yes, but―"

"I see," the manager cut him, his curiosity now quenched, but the Vicomte's mouth was still running. The man was a blasted chatterbox.

"―His brother, Rémi, has taken over since his death―"

 _God have mercy. Please stop talking_.

"Yes! That news has been around for a long time now." Monsieur Lefèvre raised his voice in an attempt to silence the Vicomte at sensing Jovan's unease, but he was too late as she had already turned her back to them, her feet taking her away from the two men. All that prevented her now from breaking into a run was the feeling of the Vicomte's stare on her after her abrupt leave; she couldn't risk him raising any suspicions about her.

It was not until she reached the backstage that she let out a breath that she was holding in. She noticed Mateo rushing to her as she backed herself into a corner, willing herself not to come apart. Everything was just so sudden―

"Jo. Jove!" Mateo grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her. "Are you alright? What happened back there?"

The lie rolled off her tongue flawlessly. "Nothing. I'm fine."


	19. Cracks

Author's Note: This has to be the latest update I've made, and, if I'm being honest, it won't be the last ― I am truly sorry. I was absolutely swamped with school requirements last month and I've been busy with exams this November. On another note, out of curiosity, who do you guys see in your heads whenever Jovan takes the stage? Let me know in a review!

* * *

( _nineteen_ )

 **CRACKS**

* * *

Jovan was utterly grateful for Monsieur Lefèvre's next course of action when he finally opened the Opera Ghost's newest letter and began to read it. It was a sound distraction, and it succeeded in driving away the attention from her as the newest members of the staff carried varying reactions as they were welcomed by the Phantom to his opera house.

Several moments passed in which Mateo unflinchingly stood by her side until Jovan was able to compose herself. She proceeded to quickly tie her hair up before she hid it with the help of her beret. Her expression was hard as she fixed her appearance.

"You good? I thought you made quite an impression back there with the Vicomte," Mateo commented with a crooked grin.

Jovan groaned. "No one bothered to tell me that he was Vicomte."

"Yep, he's the Vicomte Collet. Suzanne's father. He's our newest patron, actually."

She felt her heart sink with every revelation that left Mateo's mouth. She could only rely now on the hope that she hadn't blown her cover and that Suzanne was oblivious to her existence before Jovan arrived to the Opéra Populaire under the name she now used. Jovan couldn't believe her luck ― or, rather, her lack thereof. She heaved a sigh as she finally left her corner with Mateo by her side.

"So," Mateo began. "What does it feel being the Opera Ghost's new note carrier?"

Jovan shot him a look. "New note carrier?"

He snickered. "Oh ho, Elea's not gonna be happy with this."

She tried not to wince at his words, recalling Elea's evident unease whenever the Opera Ghost was concerned. She was bound to get an earful from her friend later if word had spread fast that she was apparently the Opera Ghost's new note carrier in Madame Giry's absence. Jovan then silently made a vow to herself that this was to be the first and last time she was to deliver Erik's letter.

* * *

Jovan was the second to arrive back in the dormitory after dinner. She realized this when she walked into the room, only to be greeted with Suzanne already occupying the place.

"Joan, isn't it?" the new chorus girl asked her the moment she closed the door behind her.

"It's Jovan," the stagehand snapped, feeling her dislike for the newcomer only grow with each second she was in her presence. It didn't help that Suzanne's bed was across Jovan's, the bed that Maeva used to occupy. She suddenly found herself wishing she had taken up Mateo's offer to spend the evening together instead. Or waited for Elea to finish dinner so they could have returned to the dormitories together. Or escaped to the rooftop with the smallest glimmer of hope that she'd stumble upon a certain ghost.

With little thought, Jovan let her eyes drift to the wall mirror on the far wall of their dormitory. Ever since Erik had taken her down to his lair, she had only been there thrice, not counting the first time, and she found herself longing to visit him down in his home once more. As puzzling as it was to her, there was a strange pull that she felt towards his world, cut off from the clutches of society and the wary eyes that had a habit of judging her. But, perhaps, that was exactly the reason why Erik's solitude and isolation appealed to her.

Comprehending her choices, Jovan slipped out of the room and away from the company of Suzanne, only to be met with Mateo outside in the corridor.

"Hey, Jo. We're going out for drinks tonight," he told her as he approached her. It was not unlike for Mateo to join the stagehands during their sporadic escapades to a nearby pub, the Harpy's Haven, to drink away their exhaustion after rehearsals.

Jovan gave him a smile as she took off her beret. "Buy me a religieuse on the way, won't you?"

He chuckled. "I'll see what I can do."

With that, they said their goodbyes before they parted ways. So now spending the rest of the evening with Mateo was out of the question while Jovan doubted that she wanted Elea's company right now, remembering Mateo's words as to how to ballerina would be displeased that she was the one to deliver the Opera Ghost's note that morning. Sighing, Jovan let her feet take her away from the dormitories and to someplace else.

An hour later, Jovan somehow found herself in the auditorium amidst the darkness. Out of all places, she was pacing around the stage where her every step echoed off the walls of the theater which was devoid of any presence save hers. Many times Jovan had caught sight of one of the chorus girls or perhaps two of the ballerinas as they took their place on the stage, when they thought no one was looking, before proceeding to sing their heart out. It was not an uncommon thing, it seemed, for the girls of the opera house to at least try out how it felt to be the mere magnetizing presence onstage, to try to live out their fantasies where they had landed their dream roles and whatnot. And while Jovan had her own fantasies, they were not dreams of being onstage and being the center of attention. Her dreams were threaded with her longing to be free of her plight and reveries of being anywhere but here. Perhaps on a train that could take her far away, or a ship that was brave enough to sails the seas on a storm―

She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath as she stopped in her pacing. An hour ago, she longed for solitariness away from the prying eyes of the world. Now, she longed to travel the globe without any ties to hold her down, to see the world for what it was and to discover beauty and adventure for herself.

Jovan's stream of thought was violently cut off when she felt the floor collapse beneath her feet, submerging her in a world of darkness.

* * *

Erik was unable to stop the smirk from creeping to his lips as Jovan dropped upon a pile of hay, softening her fall as the trapdoor above her closed. The scream that had left her lips was short, but dark pleasure coursed through him the moment he heard it. He stood still in the dark as Jovan gave her surroundings a cursory glance. He could practically see the gears turning in her head as she processed what just happened.

"ERIK!"

He revealed himself to her as she glared daggers at him. But with strands of hay tangled with the locks of her hair and stuck to the clothes she wore, Jovan was hardly an intimidating sight. A chuckle rumbled in his chest as he offered his gloved hand to her.

"Just what the hell made you think that this was a good idea?" she barked at him as she took his hand before she put all her might in trying to pull him down. Erik recognized her attempt to make him join her in the pile of hay in retaliation, but he saw it coming a mile away and stood unwavering on steady feet.

"Watch your tongue, Jovan. You're starting to pick up the stagehands' habit for crude language," he scolded her lightly as he proceeded to pull her up to her feet. She dusted off her clothes and ran her fingers through her hair to get rid of the hay.

"What do you think, Erik? I've been working with them for more than a year now," she lamely replied as she stepped out of the hay with a huff of indignation. "You've got a passageway below the stage?"

"A brilliant deduction. Truly, brava," Erik sneered in a sarcastic tone to which Jovan groaned at in response.

"What am I doing here, you lunatic?"

"Why, I've decided to rescue you from boredom. And perhaps I saw you shoot a longing look or two toward your dormitory mirror after dinner," Erik answered, recalling how he saw the yearning burning in her eyes as she looked at the hidden passageway in her dormitory. He had not missed _that_ , staying true to his words that walls had ears and doors had eyes in his opera house. But it was only an hour later that he found himself taking action to do something about Jovan's apparent dilemma, after he found boredom knocking on his door as well.

He watched as her eyes widened for a second before they narrowed into slits. "You were behind the mirror, weren't you?"

"Yes, I had my wary eye on one of our new additions," he admitted, referring to the new chorus girl, Suzanne Collet. So far, Erik saw nothing about her that gave him cause to be cautious of her, but her father, the Vicomte Collet, was another matter entirely. But that was not something he wished to delve into at the moment.

Jovan caught up at the meaning of his words. "Figures," she scoffed. "You don't plan on trapping her in the chapel to interrogate her as well, do you?"

Erik tried to sense a note of bitterness in her tone but heard nothing but amusement dripping from her words. She was simply teasing him, he realized. He felt his heart lighten with the realization and he gave her a grin, glad that such grievances, especially his own faults, had been put behind them.

"Perhaps. But, unfortunately, she's not half as intriguing as you are."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Jovan remarked. "Now, are we simply going to stand here all night?"

* * *

Her initial chagrin with Erik was not that hard to blank out of her mind, not when she was well aware that, being the Opera Ghost, it was not out of character of him to play his tricks on her even if she had done absolutely nothing to deserve his mischief. There was also the fact that he allowed her to devote time and attention to the books on his shelves during her visits down to his lair. He didn't mind sharing his collection with her once she'd proven herself capable of handling his books with care.

Nostalgia washed over Jovan for a beat as her mind strayed to her own collection back home. She couldn't help but wonder whether they were now dusted with cobwebs from lack of use, or whether their pages were now worn out from the opposite. She eyed Erik's copy of the _Iliad_ next to a collection of Greek myths, the two books seeming out of place among his collection of non-fictional volumes. She noticed that while he had quite the number of fictional novels and stories, the number of textbooks he had were twice their total.

Making up her mind, Jovan grabbed the anthology of Greek myths.

She didn't realize Erik's eyes were on her until he spoke. "I was hoping you'd take Edgar Allan Poe off the shelf."

Jovan arched a brow at him as she sank into a nearby armchair. "Why?"

"The way you were eyeing it a moment ago, I could not decipher whether it was out of fright or wonder."

"Funny how often those two blur together. And, if you must know, I find Poe's stories deliciously macabre."

"So you have a taste for morbid tales?"

"Perhaps, it depends. I'm more fond of tragedies though."

Erik gave a hum at her reply before he returned his attention to what he was doing. He had long discarded his cloak and jacket and was left in his waistcoat, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. He sat on his desk not far from Jovan, where he busied himself sketching something on his pad which he refused to show to her. A stick of graphite was positioned between his fingers with which he made long strokes on the white surface before him. It fascinated Jovan to no end as to how one man could be this talented. She watched as he blew the paper before he inspected his work, his eyebrows creased in thought as he fidgeted with his pencil.

An amusing thought strayed into her head as she swept her surroundings with a curious eye. She could imagine Elea losing ten years off her life with terror if she were to learn about Jovan's affiliation with the Phantom. While Elea remained her closest confidante, she still could not bring herself to tell her about Erik. Jovan feared for what Elea would do if she learned that her oldest friend not only conversed with the Opera Ghost but also spent time down in his subterranean home. Suddenly, the prospect was not as amusing as it had first seemed.

Jovan glanced down at the book she had on her lap. How she even came to be this comfortable around Erik's company, she could not quite comprehend. What she knew was that, over time, he just came to grow on her until she couldn't help but give in to the pull she felt towards him. It was undeniable, the spark between them ― she loved the thrill that came with talking and spending time with him and she could only hope that he felt the same. But she already knew that he did ― why else did he allow her to come this far? They both enjoyed the company of someone they could see eye to eye with.

It was indeed an amazing feat how she came to be called his friend. The memory was still fresh in her mind of how he had frightened her when he'd trapped her in that chapel to coax information out of her, but Jovan found that the fear she held towards him now was almost non-existent. Only a flicker of it remained and that was just due to how unpredictable Erik could be. But even that small spark dimmed when she lost herself in one of their battle of wits or stirring conversations. In those moments, the world around her ceased to exist as the man before her became the sole recipient of her attention.

But she could spend all the time in the world figuring out the riddle that was Erik, and Jovan knew that she would only fail in all her efforts. Much like her, Erik was a closed book who seemed as reluctant as her to open his pages for her to decipher. No matter what she did, there was a still a part of him that he sealed off to her, his walls impenetrable with only the faintest traces of a crack.

"Erik?" Her voice broke the silence.

He replied without looking up from his work. "Yes?"

"What happened to you that made you shun the world?"

"They were the first to shun me," he coolly replied but there was a small tremor in his voice that didn't escape her.

"Because of your face?"

"Because of what I hide behind this mask, yes."

Was it truly that horrible, the defect that he hid? Was is that horrible that the world became unkind to him? Jovan was not obtuse ― she had easily read between the lines of what he sang the first time she came down here, and deducing the reasons why he chose to live this way was not at all a hard task. Suddenly, the rumors and stories that the opera staff enjoyed sharing between themselves no longer seemed that entertaining. Hector's monologue about the Opera Ghost's appearance came back to her, the night before he was dismissed from his job.

 _Skin as yellow as parchment, eyes as red as your guts, and a black hole in the middle of his face where his nose should've been... His skin also has a tendency to fall off his bones at inopportune times... He walks like death, they say, carrying with him a stench so awful..._

After that night, gossip began to circulate around the opera house about how Hector became the next victim of the Opera Ghost's wrath. There was no other explanation to how his shirt mysteriously caught fire, and such unexplainable occurrences were always blamed on the Phantom. Jovan had always been skeptical about this certain case, but now she saw the light ― Erik had had every reason to be angry at Hector that night, with how the stagehand was bad-mouthing his appearance of all things. While she did not exactly approve of the 'punishment' he had given Hector, she now finally understood why he had done it.

Erik's voice pulled her away from her rumination and back to the present when he suddenly spoke. "What about you, Jovan?"

Her eyebrows knitted in confusion at his question. "What about me?"

"What happened that made you confine yourself to the safety of the Opéra Populaire?"

She broke into a humorless smile. It seemed that she wasn't the only one who was dying of curiosity in the room. Jovan couldn't blame him.

But the words that escaped her lips surprised her the moment they were let loose. "The same reason as you."

She watched as Erik froze from what he was doing before he stopped altogether. He dropped the pencil on his desk before he turned to angle his body towards Jovan. The air grew heavy between them as she noticed a faint glimmer of something harsh in his eyes. Her heart skipped a beat. Did her words somehow manage to set off something within him?

"You mean to say that your face... is the reason why you hide yourself from the world?" His voice grew low with the smallest trace of aggravation creeping into it; Jovan was taken aback by his change of tone. He now seemed bitter, angry even, a moment after she'd answered his question. Her mind raced to understand what the reason was behind his growing ire.

"Yes, no matter how strange it may sound," she replied quietly, not letting her eyes leave him.

"How so, Miss Rousseau?" Jovan's pulse quickened at his use of her faux surname, an indication of his displeasure with her. He stood from his desk as he took heavy steps towards her. "The gendarmes are not after you, I hope? I won't be seeing that face of yours plastered on the walls outside their office, will I?"

"What? No! I―" She found herself getting up to her own feet as well once Erik was a mere five feet away from her.

"Tell me then how a face as beautiful as yours could possibly get you into the same circumstances as mine!"

Every word that left his lips dripped with venom, stabbing her heart with dread as it finally dawned on her why he seemed so bitter at the moment. Erik had called her beautiful ― was that why? Did he feel mocked? _Of course he did!_ Jovan knew that something was off the moment she answered his question, that something about her words sounded wrong. And they were wrong _._ They sounded wrong to Erik, who had to hide from the world with a face as gruesome as he described his to be, while Jovan had a visage that was opposite his. She wasn't blind nor oblivious to how she looked ― she was actually painfully aware of the appeal she carried, hence another reason why she dressed herself the way she did to try and drive away some of said appeal. He thought that with a face like hers, she'd have no reason to hide. But something about Erik's words ticked her off as well. She knew she should probably be apologizing to him right now but she couldn't help but feel her own temper flare once her mind had finally fully processed his words.

"I do not have to tell you anything, Erik," she rasped, voice lowering dangerously. "But believe it or not, this face sentenced me to be the victim of an unhealthy fixation―"

"Yes, because with that face of yours, shouldn't men be throwing themselves at your feet?" he seethed.

"But I don't want that! I don't want to be an object of desire! I know all of this sounds ridiculous to you―"

"Yes, it does," Erik hissed, closing the distance between them as he grabbed her wrist. "Now you owe me an explanation."

For a second, Jovan's attention was stolen by his hand wrapped around her wrist. She realized that it wasn't as tight as she'd expected it to be, as if he were afraid that if he put too much pressure in his grasp, she'd break like glass. His fingers were still wounded around her in a way that left no space for escape, but his grip wasn't iron ― it was only to keep her in place.

She glowered at him. "No, I don't, Erik."

"You do, Jovan. You've told me this much."

"If only to sate your curiosity for now, but, evidently, it's not enough."

Using all her strength, she snatched her wrist away from his grip before he could give her a reply. She didn't wait one more second to hear his answer as she let her feet lead her away from Erik. She huffed as she pushed down the rising tide of anger from their heated exchange. How dare he! Just because she had a pretty face, he had to assume that he knew her situation, which was apparently supposed to be the opposite of his? Jovan let herself drown in the red of her thoughts as she made her way through his maze until she found herself in the tunnel leading to the dormitories. She did her best to maneuver her way through his traps, knowing that she could rely on her memory. Soon, she arrived before the two-way mirror that led to the dormitory she shared with the others. She saw that everyone was fast asleep, unmoving beneath their blankets in the darkness.

It was only when she began unlocking the secret entrance that she realized that she still held, in one hand, Erik's book.


	20. Why Angels Fall

Author's Note: Regarding my question last chapter, I've only received one answer so far ― Rachelle Lefevre! You might know her as Victoria from Twilight and New Moon (unfortunately, those are the films she's most known for, according to IMDB). Does anyone else see her when Jovan shows up or do you guys see another actress in your heads? I'm really curious so let me know! Also, don't forget to leave a review when you reach the end of this chapter ― I'm especially anxious to know what you guys think about this one. I myself had chills on my spine while I was writing this.

TheImaginativeOne: Hey Tessa! I'm glad such a small detail made you smile! I hope you continue to enjoy this story, thank you!

PerilousRosella: Oh my, I'm glad you noticed! I was just trying to keep Erik in character as much as possible, even if it meant diverging from the way that he's usually portrayed in other fics. It's nice to know that I'm doing something right about how I write him, especially because he's really difficult to portray. Thank you!

Le Fantome: You're so perceptive, I'm amazed at the amount of details that you manage to catch with each chapter and whenever you include such in your reviews along with your thoughts, it always makes me smile! Thank you so much!

* * *

( _twenty_ )

 **WHY ANGELS FALL**

* * *

 _1873_

* * *

The sunlight seeped through the window as Jovan ran her fingers down the cover of the book in her lap. It was a hardbound edition that her father had given her on her fourteenth birthday, and its pages were now well-worn from her extensive use of the book. But unlike the other afternoons where she would've enjoyed reading it on her window seat, Jovan found that she had no urge to drink in the words that the book held within its pages at the moment. There was just something so somber about the day that not a single muscle in her body was willing to move from her current position. Her mood was as dull as bright as the sun was outside, a sharp contrast. She closed her eyes and lost herself to the silence until her attention was claimed by a voice speaking behind her door.

"Miss Nathalie," the voice called out to her. "Your father requests for your presence in the front gardens."

She heaved a sigh before she gently placed the book down on the window seat as she rose from it, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress before she grabbed a shawl to complete her outfit. Well now her plans to simply keep to herself for the rest of the day was out of the equation. Silently, she slipped out of her room where one of the maids, Thea, awaited her.

"If I may be so bold, mademoiselle, but it'd be such a waste if you were the spend the whole day holed up in your room," Thea said.

"I've seen better days," Jovan answered in a monotone, putting on her shawl as she began to walk with the maid by her side.

"Doesn't mean you have to waste this one."

Before she knew it, Jovan's feet had led her out of the manor and into the way to the front gardens. Thea had long left her side to resume her tasks within the household, leaving Jovan to her own thoughts as she took her time in walking in the gardens as she searched for her father. While she had time left to herself, she spent it fixing how she held herself ― she squared her shoulders, straightened her back, and lifted her chin. As hard as it was, she curved her lips into a small smile to complete the facade. A moment later, she heard the soft sounds of an exchange between three people, two males and one female.

Jovan halted in her steps as she recognized the owners of the voices. Laughter rang out for a brief moment before they returned to their normal chatter. She sucked in a deep breath to steady herself as her clutch on her shawl tightened. _Keep it together_. God, what was she worrying about? She could do this. She'd been putting on a perfect, flawless facade for years now and she was absolutely sure that there were no visible cracks in her act.

She followed the source of the voices until she found herself approaching one of the gazebos in her father's estate. This one has three people occupying it as they immersed themselves in what seemed to her to be mindless chatter. Her father's form was unmistakable as he held a glass of brandy in one hand, a chuckle rolling off his tongue as he listened to a joke his brother was telling him.

Jovan swallowed as she let her presence be known.

"Father, you called for me," she greeted him, a smile playing on her lips as Raphael rose from his seat to greet her.

"Yes, sunshine," he answered as he approached her, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he led her up the gazebo and to the chair beside his. On his other side sat Rémi, his brother and her uncle, while Laurine sat opposite Raphael and on Jovan's other side.

"I thought you'd want to join us instead of wasting the day away locked up in your room," Raphael told her as he returned to his seat, taking a sip from the glass in his hand.

Jovan bit back a mean retort before it could escape her lips. "Glad to know that you thought about me," she answered with a light tone.

"How could we not, dearest?" Rémi answered opposite her and Jovan shot down the nausea that washed over her for a split second. She gave a mere chuckle at her uncle's words.

Laurine, Rémi's wife, turned to Jovan with a grin. "Pray tell, darling. You've been so quiet since Rémi and I arrived. You're not ill, are you?"

Jovan shook her head and gave her aunt a reassuring smile. "I'm perfectly fine, thank you. I'm just rather engrossed with this new book that Father gave me the other day." The lie that left her lips was flawless.

"Now, now, dearest. You really ought to get out every now and then too, you know," Rémi chastised her.

"I'm afraid Nathalie's not a social butterfly," Raphael answered for her, sending her a smile which gave her comfort in the very least.

She spent the next hour keeping up with their mundane chatter, throwing in her opinion every now and then to keep the conversation flowing and so as not to add fire to their doubts as to why she was so quiet these days. It was a taxing ordeal, having to appear interested in their humdrum topics while she faked smiles and laughter. If only her father would allow her a sip of his brandy then perhaps she wouldn't mind wasting her time like this. Jovan knew very well that the only reason why Raphael managed to keep up with the tedious chatter and gossip about other nobles was because of the glass of brandy in his hand. These days, he mostly drifted between states of sobriety and inebriety which helped him hold on to his sanity and the walls he had built around himself, much like her.

But her facade, a pristine and composed mask she wore, was threatening to crack under the stares she was receiving from the man opposite her. While she did her best to not meet Rémi's gaze, she could still feel his eyes roaming over her form every now and then. Jovan knew that if she made eye contact, she would only see the hunger burning in his eyes, licking at every inch of her in an attempt to sate his craving. She gritted her teeth at the thought when she decided that she could finally take no more of it.

"Father," she dared to interrupt the current conversation. Raphael glanced at her. "It's been lovely talking with you all but I wish to retire for the day now."

"Can't you stay until dinner, at least?" Laurine asked, eyebrows creasing in concern. "You could fill in Rémi and I about your adventures during the time that we were gone."

Jovan tried not to roll her eyes at the suggestion and simply gave a small smile. "Aunt, I have no adventures to speak of. But I'll be back for dinner, and perhaps you and Uncle Rémi can instead be the ones to regale Father and me with your adventures. After all, it was the two of you who went to Spain."

Mutters of approval came from the two men as Raphael gave her a grin. "Indeed, sunshine. I'm sure they'd love to tell us of their escapades during dinner later. But for now, go on." As he answered, he gave her a wink, an indication of him empathizing with her need to be alone after their small gathering. Jovan was grateful for his understanding, and stood to leave.

"Dearest, let me accompany you," Rémi suddenly piped up, standing up from his chair as well as he fixed his ascot. "I'm parched and in need of something other than your father's brandy to quench my thirst."

The double entendre of his words were not lost on Jovan as she felt her heart skip a beat. Raphael's laughter at his brother's jab was lost in the background as the roaring of her heart deafened her. She could feel the ice returning to her veins as her mind raced to find a way out of the problem.

"Uncle, don't trouble yourself," she said. "I'll send Thea to fetch you a glass of water."

But Rémi had already stepped down from the pavilion and was waving her off. "No need to bother Thea, I can do it myself."

Jovan was no longer in control of her feet as they led her away from the front gardens and back towards the manor. She knew she had to get away from him, but she knew better than to run as it would only draw the attention of the household staff. But as she heard the sound of his persistent footsteps emanating from behind her as she reached the grand foyer, every rational thought in her head slipped from her mind. The hairs at the back of her neck bristled as she felt his gaze on her once more. She seethed as she heard Rémi's pace quicken behind her. Throwing it all to hell, she was about to break into a run when she felt a hand grab a hold of her arm.

"Now, now, dearest. Running about the manor isn't how a lady should go," he whispered to her as he arrived by her side. He matched his pace with hers as they climbed up the staircase.

Jovan tried to tug her arm away but it was in vain. "Let go of me, you _snake_ ," she hissed, her anger simmering beneath the surface.

"That's not any way to speak to your uncle, Nathalie."

"And this isn't any way to treat your niece!"

Jovan was unable to keep her temper and her voice from rising as they neared her room. His grip on her arm only tightened and she let out a whimper before Rémi slammed her against the nearest wall. Pain flared up her back as he held her in place, seizing both her forearms and pinning them above her head. She struggled to free herself from his clutches, but he was much more stronger than her and the air was knocked out of her.

Rémi gave a quick scan of their surroundings behind his shoulder and only faced Jovan once he was sure that they were alone in the hallway. A guttural sound escaped from her throat as their eyes met, her eyes ablaze with venom.

"You know, I really missed you," he whispered as he lowered his lips to her ear, his breath straying to the skin of her neck.

Jovan sneered, her stomach turning in disgust. "Get off me! Someone will see us―"

Rémi's lips curled into a smirk, his eyes darkening. "It's just us in here, dearest. Why, do you prefer we take this to your room?"

At his words, she began to struggle harder against him, but he had his body pressed against hers to keep her from escaping him. The very feeling of him against her sent her head reeling with fury while she felt a spike of fear in her chest. Jovan's mind was whirling with vicious thoughts as she felt his lips graze the skin of her collarbone, her heart pounding in her chest. Revulsion fueled every fiber of her being as she raised her knee with the intent of crippling him when the act was lost on her as she felt his hand fly to her throat, his fingers wrapping around her as he threatened to cut off her air supply.

"I'm going to scream," she bit out, gasping for air as he tightened his grip on her.

"No, you won't. You know what will happen if you do."

Shutting her eyes tight for second, she felt tears prick her eyes as she struggled for breath. With that small movement, Rémi's fingers loosened around her throat in the smallest bit. Her thoughts were lost in a frenzy of disgust, hate, and sorrow as his other hand wandered to her skirts, his fingers pulling the fabric up, up, and up―

"You look so much like _her_ ," he growled.

Jovan felt a single tear slide down her cheek before she felt Rémi pull away, her skirts dropping from his hand as he put distance between them. She collapsed against the wall as she saw, in the distance, an oblivious maid exit one of the rooms before she turned into a different hallway, leaving them alone once again. She was breathing in for air to fill her lungs when Rémi grabbed her again, this time holding her by both her upper arms as he pulled her closer towards him instead.

They stood in the middle of the hallway as Jovan put her hands against his chest in an effort to keep some distance between them. The pain she felt in her arms from his grip was nothing compared to the wild way her heart was racing, constricting her chest and her throat as she struggled for breath. She held back her tears as she tried to pull away from him.

"Shush, dearest. You know better than to try me, don't you? You don't want dearest Raphael to get into another accident, don't you?" he cooed into her ear as she quietly threw at him every curse she knew. Then with unprecedented speed, he pressed his lips to hers.

Red began to cloud her vision as she felt her veins light up with fury. Fear tightened its cold claws around her heart. Every inch of her began to tremble. Desperate to put a stop to it, she let her teeth find his lower lip, and when she did, she bit down on it _hard,_ and Rémi pulled away with a shriek of pain.

As he backed away from her, Jovan hurriedly wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her dress in an attempt to erase the taste of him from her tongue. She watched Rémi's bewildered expression as he touched his lip, and he pulled his hand away from his mouth to see blood on his fingers, crimson trickling from the spot where she had bitten him. He lifted his gaze to glare at her, anger glinting in his eyes.

"You vixen―"

" _Rémi?_ "

The new voice came from the end of the hallway. Jovan tore her gaze away from her uncle as she saw Laurine standing in the distance, her hand hovering before her mouth which hung open. Horror chilled every fiber of Jovan's being as the woman began to walk towards them with an ndecipherable look on her face, her eyes cold as ice.

"Laurine, listen to me―" Rémi began but Jovan cut him off.

"It was him!" she screamed, jumping at her chance to finally out Rémi for the Devil that he was before the opportunity could slip away from her. She desperately grabbed at it like it was a life line.

"Laurine, please!" Jovan began to approach the blonde. "It's Rémi, he's been doing this to me―"

Stars burst across her vision as she felt Laurine's hand collide with her cheek. Jovan's legs crumpled beneath her from the unprecedented force as her cheek began to throb from the slap. The dam broke and her tears fell freely as she dropped to the floor. As quickly as it had come to life, the small spark of hope was extinguished in her chest, leaving nothing but coldness that began to suffocate her. Laurine towered over her fallen form as the woman seethed, venom dripping from every word that left her lips.

"How _dare_ you!" Laurine spat. "You dare to blame Rémi for your own wickedness, you harlot? You dirty, cheap―"

 _No no no no no_ _―_

A sob wracked Jovan's body as her mind barely registered Rémi rushing to his wife to stop her from doing anything rash. She struggled against his arms as he pulled her away from Jovan while she spat profanities at the redhead, every word a sharp blow to Jovan's pride as she felt herself snap. Like glass, she felt cracks rupturing over her facade as she was bared for the world to see to what she had been reduced to ― an object, a plaything, a victim of obsession. Control was slipping away from her fingers and she was helpless to do anything about it. A cry of despair strangled its way out of Jovan's throat.

She felt her heart break as she found herself desperately wishing that she was anywhere else in the world but there.


	21. Untouchable

Author's Note: You guys... the reception to the last chapter was so great. Thank you. I'm glad you guys liked it and that it even resonated with some of you. Yes, such content may be hard to read ― even I had some difficulty writing it ― but I do think that it deserves to be shown to the world nevertheless, especially to bring awareness that such things do happen in real life to real people. As for this chapter, I finally have a new record for the latest one I've ever posted. For that, I am so, so sorry. I'm not going to delay this any longer now so... enjoy!

P.S. A belated Happy New Year to everyone!

* * *

( _twenty-one_ )

 **UNTOUCHABLE**

* * *

 _"You deserve to have the world at your feet, my dear."_

These were the words that her father had always spoken to Hana Vidal, on nights before he tucked her into bed, on days after her lessons with her tutor were finished. She'd heard of nothing else her entire life until those words were finally emblazoned into the back of her mind, and she refused to believe otherwise since then. So when her father sent her to learn at the prestigious Opéra Populaire, how could Hana say no? It was one step closer to her dream of having the world at her feet, of achieving her fantasies of dominating the stage with everyone's eyes on her, of having a life where she only had her passion to live for.

But as she stood from her spot a few feet away from the rest of the ballet corps, it became clear to her that the way to the top would not be without obstacles. Marguerite Giry chatted the day away with the girls surrounding her as Hana's wary eye rested on the blonde. When rehearsals had started, Hana had expected compliments to be abound her regarding her flawless technique and her unequaled grace, but they never came. Instead, such comments were directed towards Meg and her Swedish friend, Christine Daaé, and, since then, Hana couldn't help but feel dismay burn up inside her whenever she crossed paths with the two.

It didn't help that Meg was the ballet headmistress' daughter, Madame Antoinette Giry. It was probably the reason why most of the ballet corps loved to flock around the blonde, always showering her with attention and compliments where they were deserved. It was not long after that that Hana came to the conclusion that Meg Giry was untouchable. She couldn't bear to share the stage with another person but it seemed that she would have to deal with the Little Giry. But there was only so much space for competition and there was the fact that there was anote person in the equation.

Christine Daaé, with her chocolate curls and doe eyes, was the epitome of sweetness. She truly looked harmless but to Hana, she was merely another threat. While she was one of the opera house's darlings, that didn't mean that she always had someone paying attention to her, unlike Meg. From the start, Hana noticed that while Christine kept up with the company of the other dancers and performers, there were also moments where she chose to keep to herself, silent and sure. Clearly, this girl liked to spend quality time with her own thoughts which, Hana noted, was frequently spent within the walls of the chapel.

The Swedish ballerina was staring at the lit candles before her when Hana walked into the place, instantly making her presence known to Christine as she cleared her throat.

Her eyes shot up to the new arrival as her lips broke into a warm smile. "Oh, Hana! I didn't realize you were there."

Hana shrugged her shoulders. "It's fine. Were you praying?"

"No. Not exactly... I was... talking to―"

She cut off Christine with a roll of her eyes, not having the patience to deal with the girl's pauses. "Your father?" In her short time in the Opéra Populaire, Hana was made aware of Christine's father, Gustave Daaé, a famed violinist, who had passed away not long before she arrived to the opera house. When it was made known to Hana how her father was a musical prodigy, it only fueled the distaste the she felt towards Christine. Who knew if the girl had inherited her father's skill with the violin as well?

Christine gave a shake of her head. "To the Angel of Music."

Hana raised a brow at her. Did her ears correctly hear the words that had left Christine's lips? The Angel of Music? Amusement bubbled up inside Hana as she stared at the girl before her, her legs tucked beneath her as she sat before the chapel's altar. The urge to mock Christine for such laughable delusions came to Hana, but she pushed it down, favoring a far more clever way to go about this new information. Clearly, this girl has lost her head. After all the talks of an Opera Ghost and now an Angel of Music, Hana's view of the people around her could no longer get any better. But perhaps she could drag down their opinion of Christine if Hana could reveal her for the nutcase that she was.

Putting on a coy smile, she rushed over to Christine before she sat herself beside the brunette. Christine looked unsure as Hana spoke.

"Your Angel of Music?" she inquired. "Is he your tutor, Christine? Is that why you always come down here to the chapel?"

"Well, yes. He comes to me, here, and in my dreams too―"

"Could I perhaps meet him?" Hana exclaimed. The thinly veiled challenge hung in the air as Christine's brown eyes widened at her, panic flickering in them as Hana resisted the urge to smirk before the girl. _Here's to seeing if your Angel of Music's real._

Christine gave her surroundings a quick glance before she softened her voice into a whisper. "I'm really sorry, Hana, but the Angel of Music is strict―"

Hana feigned shock. "Is he?" Next was hurt. "Or do you simply want to keep him to yourself?"

The Swedish girl looked taken aback by her words as her mouth fell open. "Hana, it's not like that―"

Hana cut off the girl for the fifth time as she rose to her feet, her skills with acting coming into view as she put on a convincing expression of distress. "I knew it! That's why you're so better than the others, aren't you? Because you've a skilled teacher all to yourself who you even refuse to show to me. Why won't you show him to me, Christine? Isn't he here at the moment? In this very room?"

"Hana, _please_ listen to me―" Christine stood up and tried to pacify her as she reached out to Hana but her hands were slapped away.

"Why? So you can explain yourself? Your teacher's absence perhaps? Or the fact that he's not real?"

Hana knew her words hit a sweet spot within the brunette as Christine pulled back from her with the smallest spark of anger flickering in her gaze. Fear glinted in her brown eyes as well, but from what, Hana was unsure of. She watched as Christine's jaw clenched before she spoke.

"He is real, Hana. As real as you and I, and I doubt he will appreciate your―"

Before Christine could finish her sentence, a gust of wind hit Hana in her face before it snuffed out every single candle on the altar, killing their flames and leaving little light for her to see her surroundings. The temperature dropped. Hana tried to ignore the chill the ran down her spine but failed as she found herself trembling in the darkness of the chapel.

In front of her, Christine's features twisted into an expression of concern as her eyes darted to the ceiling above them. Wasn't she frightened? What was happening? What happened to the candles? Hana felt like screaming as she demanded answers her mind could not fathom while the Swedish girl before her stood calmly in place, her eyes running all over the walls around them as they paid attention to... to what? Hana narrowed her eyes at Christine before she realized that it was as if the girl was listening... to someone. Someone only she could hear because Hana's ears were picking up nothing save for the deafening silence.

Hana's heart throbbed painfully with dread as she stared at Christine. Her Angel of Music couldn't be real, could he? She dearly wanted to believe so, but it was becoming hard to fight away her disbelief, not after what she just witnessed with the candles. Because in a sealed room such as this one, there was not a single spot where a wind from outside the opera house could've entered the chapel.

Christine's angelic voice pulled her back to reality as the brunette stared at her with worry. "Hana, you need to leave."

Hana obeyed without another word, running out of the chapel as if her life depended on it.

* * *

Jovan's skin was cold when she woke up that Sunday morning. There was a slight tremor to her fingers as she stared at them, her lips parted as she retrieved herself from the clutches of her nightmare ― no, it wasn't a nightmare but a _memory_. She quietly cursed to herself as she balled her hands into fists to steady her trembling, sucking in deep breaths to help regulate her pulse back to its normal pace. Her hair and her nightgown stuck to her skin, slick with sweat as she sat in her bed, alone once more in the dormitory while everyone else was out for mass.

Her eyes darted to her lap where she saw a book lying on top of the sheets that covered her. She glared at it, her eyes narrowing down at it as her sleep-addled mind roared at her to hurl it across the room. Her dream had began with her clutching a book as she sat by her window, similar to how she'd been reading the book on her lap last night just before she fell asleep. She held it with both hands, about to give in to the voice, when something stilled her. _Wait_. This was a book she held right now, and she had always revered books for the treasures that they were. Shaking herself out of her trance, she glanced down once more to the book she held before she realized that it wasn't hers. It was Erik's.

A sigh left her lips as her mind brought up the image of the masked genius. It had been a month since their argument, since the last time she spoke to him and the last time she went down to his home. A month since they began keeping their distance from each other like the stubborn fools they were, as much as it pained them to be away from each other. More than once, she had contemplated visiting him down in his lair to use the excuse of returning his book just so she could be near him again. More than once, she had also caught his shadow lingering not far from her post in the rafters or the catwalks. But before she could approach his dark form, he'd slipped away once she was a few feet away from him.

It was probably for the best, she tried to convince herself once, to stay away from the Opera Ghost, the subject of the numerous grim tales that circulated among the opera staff. But no matter what she tried to tell herself, that she was playing with fire, that she was flirting with danger, she could not put out of her mind even just his shadow. No, she couldn't, not when it was not the Opera Ghost that had captivated her attention, but Erik, the brilliant man behind the dark facade. And whether she liked it or not, Erik had left his mark on her, a stubborn stain that she could not wash out even with the best distractions. He always lingered there, at the back of her mind, ready to take the spotlight of her attention the moment she was left alone to her thoughts.

Jovan became aware of the way her thoughts whirled around that mystery of a man a few days after her argument with him. And she knew there was only one way to put a stop to the uproar in her head, and that was to talk to Erik once more.

She heaved a sigh as she tore the sheets off herself before climbing down from her bed to get ready for the day ahead.

* * *

One of his alarms went off as Erik's fingers stilled over the ivory keys before him, his piece interrupted by the blare of the alarm. Glancing behind his shoulder, he tried to figure out from which tunnel the alarm had come from before he saw that it came from the passageway that led to Jovan's dormitory. A sigh slipped from his lips as he stood from his bench. While there was chance that it was some fool who had tripped the alarm, that chance was slim seeing how it was Sunday which meant that most of the opera staff were out for mass. Which left Jovan as the one who had triggered the alarm.

He'd already seen this day coming, although he was amazed that they had both let the rift between them go this far. Yes, they had gone much longer than this without contact, but that was a long time ago. That was before she gave him her trust, before she gave him her friendship. And, like a child, he had thrown those gifts away with his callous words during the last time they met. He should've known better than to push her when he didn't want to be pushed himself. Hadn't he done enough when he interrogated her in that chapel a year ago? Hadn't he learned his lesson with conjuring up assumptions and presumptions? Did he ever learn?

Erik walked towards a nearby mirror as he fixed his wig and his mask. He buttoned up his shirt to give the illusion of composure when in fact, he had been stressing himself over that night for days on end. After his last meeting with Jovan, guilt made lovely perch on his shoulder as it whispered to him of his errors on that night. But it wasn't only that night that refused to relent its hold on his mind. Jovan was there too, the memory of her bruising his every thought whenever he found himself with nothing to do. Whether she knew it or not, the girl had burned herself into the back of his mind, where he could recall every detail of her with perfect clarity. From her flaming hair down to the necklace she wore. Her beret and the clothes she wore. Her low, grating voice and its husky tone...

"Erik?"

Her voice which he now heard at that very moment. With aching slowness, Erik turned away from the mirror and towards the passageway where Jovan stood at the mouth of the tunnel. He couldn't help but stare at her as she stood there, exactly as he remembered her.

"Jovan," he simply answered, welcoming her with a nod after which she stepped into his lair.

Uncertainty played across her features as she made her way to him while Erik stood still. In her green eyes, he thought he saw longing glimmering in them, but he couldn't be sure. He could see that was doing her best at the moment to put on a blank face to mask her emotions, a mask that served as a barrier between them as much as the one that Erik had on his face. A mask which he longed to pull away so she could once more be at ease around him and be able to let her emotions fly freely whenever they were together.

He was sure he resembled a statue what with how still he was and how his face was devoid of any emotions that could betray his thoughts to her. Jovan stopped when she was a few feet away from him, and it was only after she reached her arm out to him that Erik noticed that she had brought something with her.

"I came to return this," she quietly said. "I didn't realize I had taken it when I did."

In her hand, she held his collection of Greek myths in the same state that it was when he'd last seen it. Truth be told, he hadn't even realized that Jovan had taken his book with her until a few days after their argument. He gently took it from her before her hand dropped to her side.

"Is this an excuse?" he asked.

She gave a nod. "I'm glad to have an excuse." An intake of breath before she continued. "I came to talk to you about... last time. I should apologize―"

"No," Erik cut her off before she could continue. "I should be the one to apologize."

His tone dripped of sincerity and was soft as he spoke. He lowered his voice so only Jovan could hear him even if it was only the two of them.

"I'm sorry... for what I said. It was not my place to tell you, ask you of such things. By now, I'm mindful of the fact that your past is a sensitive subject for you, as mine is for me. And I tried to drive it out of you through unsavory means, twice now. Will you forgive me?"

The words felt terribly foreign on his tongue; Erik never had to apologize for his actions before. He was not used to apologizing to Antoinette for his antics on her dancers nor did she try to force him to apologize. But as he stood before Jovan at that moment, Erik realized that apologizing was just one of the many things he was willing to learn for the girl before him.

With bated breath, he waited for her response. It came in the form of a small smile and a nod.

"You're forgiven," she began. "But allow me to apologize as well. I shouldn't have stormed off like that. It was rather childish of me. If I hadn't done that, then perhaps we would've mended this much sooner than later."

Erik shrugged a shoulder. "There's nothing to forgive."

He watched as Jovan's smile widened until her attention was stolen by the feline curling around her legs. Their eyes darted down to see Ayesha rubbing herself against Jovan. The sight brought a grin to Erik's lips. Ayesha had finally warmed up to Jovan though she was still reluctant to be carried by the stagehand. Erik bent down to pick the Siamese cat up, cradling her gently into his arms while she purred without complaint.

Jovan stretched out a hand to caress the top of Ayesha's head. "You know, I think prefer Ayesha's company over yours."

He arched a brow. "Oh, really? And why is that?"

"You know what they say. Silence is golden."

Erik saw through her words and spotted the challenge hidden behind them. He glanced to Jovan to her eyes sparkling with playfulness. A smirk tugged at his lips.

"Silence is golden, you say? Then you must have never heard of the music of the night."

* * *

An alarm rang in the distance once more. Erik gave out a groan as he dropped the plates into the sink of his kitchen as he marched out of the room. It was lunchtime (he and Jovan had actually just finished eating) and who on Earth had the gall to wander his opera house and trip an alarm in the process? Erik passed by Jovan who was lounging on the settee before he rushed to his desk to look for the bottle of chloroform he hid in one of the drawers.

"No, the four cardinal virtues are wisdom, temperance, justice, and courage!" Jovan exclaimed from the settee, oblivious to the alarm. Somehow, the two had caught themselves in a discussion about the philosophy of Stoicism and were testing each other's memory about the matter.

Erik snarled as he slammed a drawer shut. "It's clarity, not courage," he retorted.

"No, it's not. Where did clarity even come from?"

"With Stoicism, aren't we supposed to face daily obstacles with clarity and integrity?" He opened one final drawer where he finally spotted the chloroform. He snatched it up before closing the drawer. He quickly pocketed it, unwilling to let Jovan see the bottle.

"Yes, but don't you remember what Seneca said? 'Sometimes, even to live is an act of courage?'"

In one stride, Erik was towering over Jovan's form on the settee. "It's clarity, not courage," he answered with a tone of finality.

"Courage."

"Clarity."

"That's not even a virtue!"

"Oh, heavens. Do just keep penning down belles-lettres because philosophy is evidently not your area of expertise."

"I'll try not to be insulted, but I'm calling ad hominem!"

" _What in God's name is going on here?_ "

Erik's narrowed eyes widened into saucers at the new voice, but he was quick to recognize it after a split second, his heart skipping a beat. He quickly composed himself, erasing all traces of emotion from his face as he put on a blank expression. He straightened before the settee where Jovan simply sank deeper into the padding in hopes of hiding herself from the intruder. She placed a hand over her mouth as she stared intently at Erik, questions swimming in her green eyes.

He gave a subtle nod of his head before turning away from the settee and towards the intruder. Erik tried not to be stunned when Antoinette's small frame, still clad in travel wear, stood near the edge of lake. Her features were twisted with incredulity and mild irritation.

Erik was thankful that the settee Jovan was lying down on was faced away from where Antoinette stood. He began to walk toward the ballet headmistress.

"Antoinette, I see that you cut your vacation short," he commented, giving her appearance a quick scan. It was evident that she had just arrived back at the opera house, but Erik didn't know what to feel about the fact that she had quickly come down to check on him after her return.

"And I see that you've been busy in the time that I've been gone," she snapped. Erik tried not to grimace at her clipped tone.

"I'm right where you left me, Antoinette," he answered as he stopped before her. He saw that her gaze had wandered from him and was scouring his lair for any signs of another presence. He resisted the urge to follow her gaze as he feigned weariness, giving a roll of his eyes. In all honesty, he didn't care whether Antoinette would discover his connection with Jovan. He wasn't going to keep it a secret from the ballet headmistress but he won't be the one to reveal it to her either.

"I can see that; you're not the one who's out of place."

"Whatever could you mean?"

Antoinette arched a brow at Erik as she strode past him and began to pace around the lair with a studious eye. "Do not take me for a fool, Erik. You were speaking with someone when I arrived." It was a statement, not a question. "Do you have someone in here with you?"

Erik quietly trailed behind the ballet headmistress as he shrugged his shoulders. "So what if I do?"

She brought a halt to her steps as she glanced at Erik. "Did they come of their own accord or did you force them down here with you?"

Erik felt his blood boil at her words, a sharp retort awaiting on his tongue, when the sight of Jovan peeking from the inside back of the settee silenced him. Her loose red tresses were visible behind the settee and her fingers were wrapped around the edge. Her piercing green eyes were the only visible part of her face. Erik didn't realize he'd been staring until Antoinette followed his stare. A shocked sound escaped her lips.

" _Jovan?_ " she shrieked as she ran towards the settee. Jovan finally sat up with a wide-eyed gaze at the ballet headmistress. She tore her glance from Antoinette for a second to shoot Erik as confused look before she climbed down from the settee to greet the older woman.

"Madame Giry? What are you doing here?" Jovan wondered with genuine curiosity, her tone unsure and full of bewilderment. It slipped Erik that the girl didn't know of his connection to the ballet headmistress. He could already feel a headache coming as he stood frozen to his spot, his eyes glued to the scene unfolding before him.

Antoinette proceeded to check Jovan's appearance before he realized that she was looking for injuries. Erik seethed; she didn't think that low of him, did she? While he was well aware of his temper, he didn't think he had it in him to intentionally harm a female unprovoked, especially Jovan of all people. Unless they happened to be someone who was in the same line of business that he used to be in, Erik being a former court assassin and all.

"I should be asking you that, child," Antoinette answered before her voice grew stern and full of ire, her hands clutching tightly those of the redhead. She turned to Erik, daggers in her eyes as she glared at him. "What is she doing down here? Did you kidnap her?"

Erik narrowed her eyes at her. Kidnap her? _What?_

She turned back to Jovan. "He didn't hurt you, did he? How long have you been down here―"

Jovan's eyes were wide. "What? _What?_ No, I―"

"He better not have laid a finger on you―"

"Madame Giry, he didn't―"

"SILENCE!" Erik roared, matching their rising volumes as he rushed towards them. The two instantly fell into a hush as Jovan flinched, almost making Erik regret raising his voice. Almost.

"Try jumping to another conclusion, Antoinette, and you might as well jump off the rooftop," he hissed towards the ballet headmistress whose eyes widened the moment the words left his lips. She was about to argue back when Erik raised a hand to silence her. "No, I didn't kidnap her. She came down here of her own decision. I didn't even know she was going to visit today. She isn't hurt in any way. If she is, I've nothing to do with it."

A moment of silence passed in which Antoinette merely stared at Erik while he held her gaze. Beside them, Jovan was equally quiet, but he could feel that she was on the cusp of wanting to break the silence. But something was holding her back, as if she knew that it wasn't her place to speak. After all, this quarrel was between Erik and Antoinette.

The older woman finally broke eye contact with Erik before turning to Jovan. "Does he speak the truth?"

Erik tried not to roll his eyes. Jovan cleared her throat. "Yes, madame."

He watched as Antoinette's hold on Jovan's hands loosened until she finally let go of the redhead, her hands falling to her sides. Antoinette straightened and composed herself as she glared at Erik. He felt a smirk pull at his lips as he stared back at the woman.

"Oh please, Antoinette. I did tell you months ago that we'd already met," he sighed.

"Indeed, but you said that it was to interrogate her."

Erik noticed Jovan cough as he arched a brow at the sound she made. "We've moved beyond that."

"Madame, as hard as it is to believe, we're good friends. We had quite a rough start, but we're sailing on smooth seas now," the redhead piped up as she stared at Erik. He saw in her green eyes that she was demanding an explanation, but for what, he didn't know. He had a strong feeling that her curiosities regarded his relationship with the ballet headmistress.

"I see," Antoinette answered but the small smile that suddenly pulled at her lips was something Erik wasn't expecting. "I didn't know you knew how to make friends, Erik."

Erik groaned. "Antoinette, I swear I will be the one to drag you all the way up―"

"No, Erik. _I_ will be the one to drag you all the way up to the rooftop if you ever dare to use that tone with me again," Antoinette bit back before Erik could finish his sentence. He shut his mouth as he found himself giving her a stiff nod, albeit quite reluctantly. The venom that flashed in her eyes was just one of the fewest things in the world that could manage to incite even the smallest dash of fear within the Opera Ghost.

The woman turned to Jovan. "You and I will talk once you return upstairs, young lady," she simply stated while redhead stammered her consent. And with that, Antoinette marched away from the pair, nearing the passageway that she'd used earlier, but not before pausing to turn towards the two one last time before she could enter the tunnel.

"Erik, just how busy have you been in my absence?" she asked with an arched brow.

"Worry not, Antoinette. Your girls are safe and sound. I am, after all, the Angel of Music."

Content, Antoinette slipped away into the darkness of the passageway as Erik and Jovan were left on their own once again.

A beat passed before Jovan spoke up. "Angel of Music? Is that what you call yourself?"

Erik walked away from her and towards his organ as he answered cryptically, "Not me. Someone else."

"Who?"

"That's a story for another time," he answered as he ran his fingers over a few keys before pausing to scribble something on a music sheet before him. He felt Jovan seat herself beside him on the bench as she gave a sigh.

"What about you and Madame Giry? You never told me about her."

"That's because you never asked."

"So how did you two come to know each other?"

"Another story for another time as well." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jovan throw her hands up into the air with a sound of frustration. A stray thought entered his head, and he realized that with the stagehand's red hair and black boots and trousers, she certainly didn't seem out of place in his home, contradicting Antoinette's words earlier. Erik shook his head as he returned his focus to his music.

"Do you even have a story that you're willing to share at this specific moment?" Jovan sighed, her tone beat with a hint of indignation in it.

He gave a chuckle. Erik had an idea. "Have you ever heard of a man called the Daroga?"


	22. Roses Have Thorns

Author's Note: Sweet baby Jesus, I AM BACK. School was an absolute fucking bitch (let a girl cuss, this ain't the 19th century anymore and I deserve it), but now that summer's here, I got all the time in the world again! You guys might notice that this seems a bit clunky at some parts so please forgive me for that, my writing is affected by the material I read, and having nothing but essays and a thesis to chew over all semester did not certainly help. A big, fat thank you to everyone who stuck with me after so long! I'm always floored every time I read your reviews and it never fails to stun me how much love you guys give to my work! Hopefully, after this chapter, I can finally return to a consistent update schedule. Also, I like to think this chapter as a pivotal one, but I'll leave you lot to read it and make up your minds. Enjoy!

* * *

( _twenty-two_ )

 **ROSES HAVE THORNS**

* * *

A pink rose in full bloom sat on Christine's nightstand, a black ribbon tied around it.

Across the Swedish ballerina's bed, Hana stared at the flower as if it could bite her at any moment. Venom swam in her blue eyes as her arms were crossed against her chest. Christine had a secret admirer? This fact did not sit well with the strawberry blonde as she considered throwing away the rose, or, better yet, burning it. She couldn't take it for herself; who knew if Christine had already received a rose like this one before? Then she would just recognize this one right away.

Speaking of the Devil, the door to the dormitory suddenly swung open, and Christine and Meg slipped in. Smiles lit up their features while laughter radiated off them. Hana couldn't be in a fouler mood than at that very moment. She watched as the two girls walked towards Christine's bed while the blonde chatted with her friend about opening night which was only a week away.

"Do you think Madame Lavigne's going to leave after this one production?" Meg asked.

Christine shrugged. "I'm not sure but I certainly won't mind if she stays."

Hana couldn't even be bothered by the fact that they didn't notice her, or, even if they did, greet her. She was too busy watching them as they neared the Swedish girl's bed. She saw that Meg was about to reply to Christine when her eyes landed on the rose that sat on Christine's nightstand. Her eyes widened as she clapped her hands over her gaping mouth. Christine immediately followed her friend's gaze, wondering what could've rendered her silent.

"Christine!" Meg shrieked excitedly. "You didn't tell me you had an admirer!"

The brunette's eyebrows furrowed as she approached her nightstand, eyeing the pink flower atop it. After a beat, a smile crossed her lips, a warm, knowing one that emitted gratitude. Hana felt her pulse quicken and her temper simmer at seeing it, wanting to wipe the smile off Christine's fair face.

"I don't have one, Meg," Christine answered as she gently picked up the rose, careful not to touch any of its thorns. Hana frowned ― who gave roses without having their thorns removed first?

The way Christine was holding the flower was as if it was made of glass, her eyes glazed over with wonder as she held the rose close. Closing her eyes, she inhaled its sweet scent before letting out a deep sigh, the smile never leaving her lips.

"Then who left it?" Meg wondered out loud. She turned to Hana who shook her head, already knowing what the blonde would ask her.

"It was already there when I got here," she answered with a lackluster tone, shrugging her shoulders. Meg's mouth formed an 'o' before she turned back to Christine.

Hana knew that Meg was trying to lower her voice but her attempt failed. Her tone was hushed, but Hana still heard what the blonde whispered to Christine as she bent close to her friend's ear. Hana felt her throat go dry at the words that left Meg's lips.

"Could it be your Angel of Music?"

Christine swiftly pulled away from Meg with parted lips while the blonde giggled. Then the Swedish ballerina lifted a single finger to press it against her own lips, motioning for her friend to keep silent. Immediately, Meg stopped bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Hana barely knew what she was bearing witness to, but she had a feeling in her gut that there was something sinister at play.

* * *

Hana was fuming. She was trying so hard to hide her anger but it was growing harder to do so with each passing second. Red clouded her vision as ahead of her stood Christine, a smile gracing her features as Madame Lavigne showered praise down on the Swedish ballerina.

 _How dare she!_ The moment was supposed to belong to Hana, hers alone while the rest of the ballet corps stood behind her to lend her the spotlight for a mere five seconds. Five seconds to perform a jeté before she would take back her place among the background dancers while the older ballerinas took back the spotlight. And Christine had stolen the moment, _her_ moment!

Hana couldn't even fathom how that managed to happen, how Madame Lavigne's attention was stolen by Christine during her moment. Wasn't the focus supposed to be on her for those five seconds? Yet, somehow, the ballet mistress' eyes had managed to wander from her and to the Swedish ballerina at the back, noticing the 'exemplary grace' that Christine had exhibited, as Madame Lavigne had put it.

Lunch break couldn't come fast enough after that, and Hana spent the remaining time before lunch sulking behind a facade of calmness. As the ballet corps performed the last seconds of their number, Madame Lavigne gave a clap of her hands while Madame Giry sat in one of the velvet seats of the auditorium, observing in silence.

When the performers and the crew finally began to disperse to make their way to the cafeteria, she found her feet leading her somewhere else. Her mind was a hurricane that was torpid with whirling thoughts of resentment towards her competition, and her hands were balled into shaking fists at her sides. _Christine Daaé, Christine Daaé_. God, she wanted nothing more than for that girl to just leave, not when everyone around her seemed to adore the girl. And now, after the rose she had received from her so-called secret admirer, there were now those who were also envious of her.

Hana's mind was in a red haze when she made her way into the costume workshop, unoccupied by the costume headmistress and her seamstresses. But their work was left out for anyone to see as Hana walked towards a table where a dress was laid out, in the middle of being repaired, while a needle, thread, and a pair of scissors lay not far from it. Huffing, she walked next towards one of the many racks in the room which held the costumes that were to be used during their performances.

The rack that Hana stopped at was the one which her own costume hung from. She reached out a hand to caress the baby blue chiffon of the garments as she did her best to return her breathing back to its normal pace. Stressing about her competition was not a way to go when there was nothing she could do about it in the end. Hence, if she were to make any progress with beating the Daaé girl, Hana realized she would have to take action.

At the thought that crossed her mind, she noticed that Christine's costume hung next to hers. Hana looked behind her shoulder to spot the silver glint of the scissors that lied on the table. Inhaling sharply, she walked towards the table and grabbed it before returning to the clothes rack from before. She grabbed the chiffon of Christine's costume with the scissors in her other hand.

She'd never had to resort to sabotage before, but the thought of it had an undeniably delightful appeal to it. And Hana was in need of something to vent her anger out on; the chiffon seemed to be the perfect prey for it.

* * *

Erik had to remind himself to breathe when the rumors reached him.

It was quite simple really... _not_. For Erik, it was no simple matter, and the same could be said for the costume mistresses as well. A few days ago, some moronic wretch had somehow found their way into the costume department and proceeded to ruin a few of the costumes belonging to the younger minority of the ballet corps. Had the circumstances been different, Erik wouldn't have wasted another breath at the brewing trouble. But then one of the sabotaged costumes had to belong to Christine, and that's where Erik drew the line.

Her dress, along with two other ballet rats' whose names Erik didn't bother to remember, were the unfortunate victims of some rascal's pathetic idea of a joke, if it could even be called a joke. From a single glance, Erik was almost immediately able to identify the emotion from which the crime had stemmed ― envy. How could he have not recognized it when he was all too familiar with the feeling itself? With that in mind, it should've been fairly easy for Erik to spot the suspect next. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

Erik was very much aware of the false faces that surrounded Christine. He knew too that the Swedish ballerina herself was aware, but, being the angel that she was, she was too kind to outright tell to their faces that she could see through their acts before sending them away. Instead, she played along with them, an arguably more peaceful way of handling things than causing a ruckus by calling people out. It only served to endear Christine more to Erik, but it was a double-edged sword too ― the more that Erik saw a few of her peers forcibly offering her support with feigned mirth and schooled smiles, the more convinced he became that these people were undeserving of Christine.

He prided himself on being quite adept at spotting whether people were being true or false ― he'd grown up surrounded by theater people after all ― but there were just too many of those fake lot surrounding Christine that it was proving to be quite difficult to spot the culprit behind the costume mishap. He then decided to decrease the age range of the suspect to be around Christine's age and not any older by more than two years. After all, what did a seventeen-year-old have to fear from someone several years younger than them? (A lot, if Erik was being honest, but that could just be his ego talking).

After narrowing down his list of suspects, only then did Erik finally spot the suspect, and when he did, she stuck out like a sore thumb. He distinctly remembered Hana Vidal frowning down on Jovan on her first day in his opera house, a grimace accompanying her question of whether Jovan would be staying with them. Since then, it seemed as if the girl always carried a sour taste on her tongue that never went away. A pity, Erik had thought, since even he could concede that she had innate grace and talent.

But then he noticed that the scowls marring her face always seemed to deepen whenever Christine was around. A grimace never went unmissed whenever Madame Lavigne had a comment for Christine. There was an ever-present glint of disdain in her eyes, in every side-way glance that she gave the brunette. Any other person would've have failed to notice these tells, as Hana was actually good at concealing her contempt to the ordinary eye, but then Erik not just any other person and he did have an eye for details.

With all these observations in mind, Erik then knew that he wouldn't push it past Hana to have a jealous streak. Additionally, only such a gripping emotion could compel a person to commit such an act of atrocity. Well, cutting up baby blue chiffon into pieces was not atrocious enough in Erik's book, but, at the very least, it was annoyingly childish.

So when the whispers reached his ears that he was the culprit behind the sabotage, Erik lost it.

Sure, he could admit that he could be a child at times ― Antoinette was all too happy to remind him of that every so often ― but he would never stoop so low as to cut up children's costumes into pieces. Whatever wrong could the children have committed against him? None! It certainly didn't help that Christine was involved in this sick excuse of a 'joke,' but when Erik saw her take the blow gracefully without any violent reaction, he considered letting the offense slide, seeing that it was just a girl her age that turned out to be the suspect.

But all thoughts of forgiveness were buried and forgotten when the following afternoon came.

* * *

Perched at her post, Jovan generously lent her eyes and ears to the scene below her. The ballet corps were performing a number while Madame Lavigne stood to the side with Madame Giry beside her, the two ballet mistresses exchanging criticisms between themselves regarding the routine unrolling before them. However, to Jovan's untrained eye, the ballet rats were doing spectacularly. She may have spotted a stumble or two from the older ballerinas, but, overall, from her perspective, things were going as smoothly as they could be.

The music then came to a halt, forcing Jovan to resurface from her idle state, and Madame Lavigne began to spout, not unkindly, the quibbles she and Madame Giry had spotted during the rehearsal. The rumor mill supplied Jovan with the reckonings that the younger ballet mistress would soon be leaving after this production, her husband having been called away to England and her duties as wife forcing her to follow. While Jovan had developed no attachment to the woman, there was something quite dismal about seeing an employee leave, especially when they hadn't done any wrong or were undeserving of being sacked, but then again, Madame Lavigne was leaving of her own accord. There was nothing anyone could do about that.

The ballet rats were shuffling their clothed toes here and about as they listened to Madame Lavigne list off their improvements and failings, with Madame Giry nodding every now and then in the background. Jovan waited patiently for the woman to finish, leaning her arms parallel to the railing before her then placing her forehead against them. She should be done any minute now, Jovan thought as she bit her lip in thought. Any minute...

But the moment never came. Instead, Jovan had to listen to Madame Lavigne be caught off by a cry of surprise. Roused by the sudden outcry, Jovan straightened up and tapered her eyes at the scene below her, her gaze drawn in by the break in uniformity. While the rest of the ballet corps stood in place with a little scuffling, Hana Vidal stood a little far in the back with an arm outstretched before her, her finger pointed at the girl before her while her other hand covered her gaping mouth. When Jovan's eyes darted to the girl in front of Hana, the redhead's insides turned.

It was Christine, the light fabric of her leotard bruised by a blooming stain of red behind her.

A chorus of gasps followed Hana's exclamation while the nearest ballerinas, the younger ones, visibly backed away from Christine. Jovan watched with bated breath as Elea then rushed towards the Swedish ballerina, a cloak in the older girl's arms that she had snatched from a nearby actor in costume. Christine stood wide-eyed, confusion and panic flickering across her pale face, as Elea proceeded to wrap Christine up with the cloak before hastily leading her away to the dormitories, the two ballet mistresses in tow. When the four were out of sight, only then did Jovan allow the air to return to her lungs as she took a calming breath.

A giggle or two rose from below just before Monsieur Reyer barked at the ballet rats to return to their formation. Jovan felt her temper spike at what had just transpired, her ire specifically focused on a certain strawberry blonde. Maybe it wasn't exactly admirable for a person of her age to get mad at someone so much younger, but Jovan's anger wasn't misplaced. The outcry and the pointing was very much unneeded as it only served to further Christine's embarrassment. Hana could've handled things more sensibly. But then again, Hana was practically only a child, indelicate and prone to misconduct which were all key traits of a someone who had yet to mature.

But something told Jovan that things were not that simple.

* * *

When Hana woke up the next morning, the first thing she noticed was Madame Giry resting on the edge of Christine's bed. It was not a peculiar sight, considering what Christine was going through, but dark satisfaction coursed through Hana when she learned that Christine would be taking a break from rehearsals on that day. On any other day, Christine would've been lucky, but Madame Lavigne had just told them yesterday that she would begin teaching the new routine that day, something that Christine would now be forced to miss.

As Hana prepared for the day ahead, her eyes darted occasionally toward the brunette's curled up form beneath her sheets. Christine's back faced the rest of the room and she was still as death as she slept, obvious signs that she preferred to be left on her own at the moment. With a small smirk threatening to pull at her lips, Hana grabbed her ballet shoes from the top of her chest trunk before sauntering out of the room, more than pleased with the fruits of her little crime.

Madame Lavigne's voice rang out in the auditorium as she called for the ballet corps to fall into formation for their warm-up routine. While the other ballerinas began to powder their toes with rosin, Hana was just about to put on her shoes. Setting herself down on an elevated platform, she began to pull up on her ballet shoes while flexing her toes.

A scream left her lips when she felt something sharp embed itself into her toes.

* * *

When Madame Giry entered the dormitory that day, Jovan was alone.

The ballet headmistress had immediately rushed to the brass-framed mirror in the far wall with the intent of unlocking it, a dark air of anger surrounding her. Jovan simply watched from her bed as the irate woman fumbled with the mirror, her fingers running down the ornate design of the frame in search of the mechanism that would reveal the hidden entrance to the Opera Ghost's labyrinth. With every second that passed that Madame Giry failed to open the entrance, the more frantic her searching became. As Jovan observed in silence, she wondered what could be taking the woman so long. The mechanism was fairly easy to locate if you already found it once, and Jovan didn't think that Madame Giry had yet to use her dormitory's mirror for the first time.

After a few more moments, Madame Giry proved to be fruitless in her efforts. She straightened up with a huff just as Jovan stalked closer to the mirror.

"The wretch locked me out," Madame Giry supplied with a hiss when Jovan stopped before the mirror. "He knew I'd come for him after what he did to Hana."

"You've tried the other passages?" Jovan inquired. At that point, the woman looked like she would rip the mirror off the wall if it were possible.

"All of them. At least, the usual ones that I use. The ones in the dormitories I only use as a last resort, but it seems that he was very thorough."

Jovan wouldn't expect any less of Erik. For a man who liked to cause trouble, he was also quite proficient at avoiding it. Madame Giry was seething when she left the room, muttering under her breath words that would make a sailor blush, and Jovan was once again left in the heavy silence. Not that the quiet was blatantly uncomfortable, but it simply reminded her of the most recent incident at the Opéra Populaire, one that had seemingly come straight out of a nightmare.

It was Sunday but only Madame Giry and Jovan had elected to stay behind in the opera house this time, Madame Giry for the obvious reason of wanting to find a way into Erik's lair and Jovan because she couldn't care less for mass. Everyone, including the less religious folk, had gone to church in light of Hana's chilling dilemma. Since the incident, Jovan hadn't had any contact with Erik, but it was not like she was avoiding him. She was just... there. In fact, it seemed that Erik was the one avoiding her, perhaps in fear that Madame Giry would use Jovan as a way to get into Erik's home, and a furious Madame Giry was something Jovan knew that Erik didn't want to deal with if possible.

An hour swiftly flew past Jovan as she found herself sitting before the mirror on the floor, cross-legged. Her green eyes were not on the mirror, but they rested on the wooden boards instead, her finger tracing abstract patterns on the wood. There was not much to ponder about, even regarding a certain masked genius, that Jovan was already aware of. She already knew of Erik's vicious temper, one that rivaled hers, and the lengths he was willing to go to quell it. Upon hearing of what happened to Hana, Jovan immediately knew that Erik was the culprit. She didn't even dare point a finger at Christine ― no, the girl didn't even have it in her to hurt a fly unless necessary.

The number of times that Erik's actions truly scared Jovan still fitted in the number of fingers she had in one hand, but Jovan didn't really want to have to count up to ten or past that. But she reckoned that the need to do so may rise in the future, seeing as she indeed liked to play with fire and didn't seem to mind at all when she got burned. The guilt of not telling Elea about her connection to the Phantom already gnawed at her every single day, but she supposed she just had to lie in the bed she made. Past the point of no return, indeed.

Rising to her feet, Jovan ran a hand through her unkempt hair and she stepped closer to the mirror. Absently tracing the intricate carvings of the brass frame with her hand, Jovan found herself wondering if Erik stood on the opposite side of the glass at the moment. But as she stared into the mirror and saw her own green eyes staring back at her, Jovan knew that he was not. She knew this now from how empty the place felt, something that would not be possible if Erik were there. There was just something inextricable about Erik's presence, something strong and magnetizing, even intoxicating at times, that just pulled the attention of those around him toward himself. Instead, at the moment, Jovan only felt hollowness and a deafening silence to accompany it.

Deciding to press her luck, Jovan's fingers then traversed the swirls and spirals until she found it. Pushing down, she felt an odd mixture of sweet satisfaction and surprise wash over her as the mirror shifted, revealing the hidden passage behind it. Her lips thinned into a small, controlled smile as she realized that her first instinct was to call for Madame Giry. However, she suppressed that urge after contemplating the consequences of that action. She was still on shaky grounds with Erik, and bringing trouble to him was certainly not going to help. Deciding to be selfish this time, Jovan stepped through the brass frame and shut the mirror close behind her.

After a successful evasion of all the traps in his tunnels, Jovan found herself arriving at an eerily quiet lair. Only the soft lapping waters of the lake reached Jovan's ears as she began to explore Erik's home, the Opera Ghost suspiciously absent from his haunt. Jovan wasn't quite sure why she found it to be unsettling but it unfortunately was. Papers and music sheets were still scattered about the cavern's floor and over the organ's keys, and many of the candles were still lit which Jovan took as good signs and clues that all pointed to Erik being within the vicinity just recently. But the most glaring pointer had to be the one on his desk.

Jovan's feet pulled her closer to Erik's desk as she eyed the mass of red that covered it. The scent of candle wax now battled with the fragrance of the roses that lay across the table, each one in full bloom and as dark as blood. Eyebrows creasing as she stared at the flowers, Jovan carefully reached for one of them, not caring to look where she placed her fingers.

When she felt something sharp prick her finger, a small whimper escaped Jovan's lips as she let go of the rose. Blood beaded from the small cut on her thumb as Jovan stared at the torn skin before she brought her finger to her lips, sucking the blood from the wound as a metallic tang spread on her tongue. Pulling away her thumb, Jovan couldn't help but silently berate herself for her carelessness, having been too entranced by the rose that she forgot about its thorns.

What reckless fool didn't remove the thorns from their roses anyway? Without Erik around to explain, Jovan had to simply settle with labeling such as another of his oddities, something that Erik didn't seem to be short of. Bringing her thumb to her lips once more, the taste of blood reminded Jovan once more of Hana and her misfortune, a chill running down her spine when her eyes landed on the thorny roses laid out before her.

When Hana screamed that morning days ago, it was because of the pain that bloomed forth from her toes. Pulling out her feet from her shoes revealed that frighteningly large thorns had stuck to her toes and quite deeply at that. Far from the thorns that a rose possessed, they were the kind that you were only supposed to find in the deepest parts of a forest, with a length of half an inch. As the blood had sprang from Hana's toes, Jovan remembered being unable to help it when a gasp of her own slipped from her parted lips.

The scene was kindling for nightmares but also that for the Phantom's already fearsome reputation. Even for all of Hana's faults, Jovan still felt a semblance of pity for the girl. If one thing was sure, it was that a prolonged period of time would have to pass first before she could return to honing her passion, to dancing. That was, Jovan believed, a tragedy in itself.

That was, she also believed, why Erik was due for a scolding. Maybe not the tirade that Madame Giry was itching to give him though because that would only result in a fight, but Jovan promised herself that the next time she'd come across Erik, she wouldn't be so light on him as well.

Roses had thorns, after all.

* * *

Author's Note: Better watch yourself, Erik. And now I leave you all to get philosophical about what truly embodies justice. What is justice indeed? Don't look at me, Philosophy was biting my ass throughout the semester. Also, I know there aren't any interactions between Erik and Jovan here, but I promise that the next chapter will make up for it. But for now, this is where we stop. Don't forget to drop a word or two below!


	23. Hopeful Unrest

Author's Note: I don't know if you guys noticed but there's a change in the number of chapters. None of the story's chapters were deleted but I did remove the very first chapter (which used to contain a lengthy note, the disclaimer, and the blurb) and merged it with the actual first chapter of the story (which used to be the second chapter and now is the first, and now also carries the disclaimer from the old first chapter). If you didn't notice, then feel free to disregard what I just explained ― this is for those who might be wondering.

Onto another matter though. You might want to check the previous chapter, entitled Roses Have Thorns, and see if you have read that first. When I updated this fic, I deleted another chapter which contained only a note explaining why I hadn't updated for a long time. I didn't realize that removing said chapter would cause this fic to appear at the top of the category. You might have opened it then and saw there was no new chapter. However, I did post a new one, only it was several hours later. TLDR; check the chapter before this one and make sure you've read it first.

Le Fantome: I hope you get through your semester unscathed! You know, it still blows me away to know that there's a number of people out there, you included, who've said that this is their favorite/one of their favorite fics. It really touches me to know that and I hope you know that your reviews in particular never cease to make me smile! Thank you!

* * *

( _twenty-three_ )

 **HOPEFUL UNREST**

* * *

"Wake up." The words were accompanied with a nudge to the girl's feet.

Erik watched as Jovan stirred from her position beneath the statue, her hands pulling her cloak tighter around her frame. Her red hair was sticking from under the beret she wore, completing her disheveled appearance. She was obviously tired, given the night's newest opera, but why she had to go to the rooftop and choose a really uncomfortable-looking spot to fall asleep on was beyond Erik.

"Evening," Jovan greeted lamely.

He gave a nod of his head. "What are you doing here?"

"Meditating, until you arrived and broke the peace," she retorted.

Erik rolled his eyes. "The peace was broken the moment you fell asleep."

"I don't snore, if that's what you're implying," Jovan answered peevishly as she climbed down from the statue, landing on wobbly feet. Erik almost made a move to help her but he stilled himself when her hand landed on the statue for support. Once she regained her balance, she stifled a yawn as she met Erik's eyes.

"What _were_ you doing here?" Erik tried again.

"Decided that I needed some fresh air." Jovan began to pace around, her foot kicking a dry leaf that had strayed onto the rooftop. "I'm not in the mood to partake in the celebrations tonight."

 _La tragédie de Brigitte_ was another unsurprising success for the Opéra Populaire, and, even on the rooftop, the sounds of merrymaking could be heard as laughter and music drifted into the night. The noise was not loud enough to be a bother though, the wind helping to mute the noise coming from below.

"What about the ballet rat who always kept watch over you?" Erik stayed rooted to his spot, his gaze following the redhead as she moved in circles a few feet away from him.

"Her name's Elea, you know."

"I know."

Jovan huffed, shooting Erik a look. "She's with Aldrich. Said he had to talk to her about something."

"Have you any idea what it's about?"

"I have an idea, alright." A small laugh escaped Jovan but it sounded more sad than anything. Her green eyes were downcast, their usual spark absent and replaced with a lackluster haze. Whether it was from exhaustion, from having just woken up, or from something else entirely, Erik was unsure. But given her short replies, Erik could guess that her blue mood had something to do with her friend, Elea.

Erik was not in the dark regarding Elea's relationship with Aldrich. To the casual eye, Elea appeared to be aloof when it came to her suitor, staying true to her grounded and sensible nature as she always maintained a proper distance from him. Meanwhile, the young man was more open, unashamed in displaying his affections for the ballerina. But when no one else was looking, that was when their true colors shone. Too many times had Erik caught the young couple hidden in some dark corner of his opera house, exchanging too many kisses and whispering sweet nothings into each others' ears.

It was during those times that Erik regarded his sharp sight as a curse.

"You need to get rest ― _proper_ rest," he remarked as Jovan came to a stop, her foot gently poking another wayward leaf. At that moment, the redhead looked nothing more than a child, albeit a tired one. How old was she again, anyway? Nineteen? Twenty? Erik had to ask her another time.

When Jovan's silence was the only response he received, Erik drew in a silent breath before walking to her.

"Jovan," he said, prompting her to meet his eyes. "It's time to go."

She nodded once before walking toward the rooftop's door, leaving Erik to silently trail behind her.

* * *

The hallway was thankfully well-lit while Jovan made her way to her dormitory. She had long taken off her cloak and it now draped from her arms. Taking her key out of her pocket, Jovan was nearing her room when she spotted a familiar brunette running toward her from the opposite direction.

"Jovan!" Elea called. Jovan blinked several times ― Elea was _running?_

As the ballerina drew closer to Jovan, the stagehand could see the corners of her lips curved upwards in a gleeful smile. Her hands held onto her skirts to avoid her feet from tripping on them. As she skittered to a stop before Jovan, Elea paused to catch her breath, but the smile did not leave her lips.

Jovan gave a small one of her own. "Elea? Is that you? Running?"

"Oh, psh," the ballerina answered, chuckling. "No one saw me. Anyway, I have something to tell you."

"Tell me inside," Jovan replied, about to key the door when Elea took her hand to stop.

"Wait, is there someone inside?"

Jovan's brows creased as she placed her ear against the door. From within the room, the chatter between two girls could be heard. Withdrawing, Jovan gave her friend a nod.

"Tell me here, no one's around anyway," Jovan offered, doing her best to not let her exhaustion channel into her tone.

Luckily, Elea didn't seem to notice, her elation clouding her judgement. Her hands reached to hold both of Jovan's upper arms and she leaned in closer, a twinkle visible in her eyes.

"Jo, Aldrich proposed to me."

* * *

Erik gently shooed Ayesha from his desk, and the feline had the mind to obey her master, jumping down from the table as her necklace of gems rustled. Ayesha had placed her eyes on the inkwell earlier while Erik stood close by, and he was lucky to spot her before she could begin to paw it. The last time that happened, Erik had been too late, and the result was still visible on the floor of his home if one looked closely enough.

Returning his violin on his collarbone, Erik began to run the bow against the strings. He softly hummed along while he searched the corners of his mind for the right words to accompany the tune he was composing. His eyes fell close and his lips silently moved, testing out the words, before he lowered his bow and picked up his pen. Erik stared at the parchment before him, dipping his pen into the inkwell.

 _For every night I lie in bed_

Putting pen against paper, Erik scribbled the next words.

 _The brightes_

His hand fell still as Erik glared at the incomplete word. _Bright?_ Since when did that word belong in his dictionary? Shaking his head, Erik moved to scratch the word when a voice interrupted him.

"I didn't know you were left-handed too."

"I believe the word you're looking for is ambidextrous," Erik threw over his shoulder, recognizing Jovan's husky tone. He dropped his pen and lowered his violin before turning to his visitor. The redhead was walking away from the edge of the lake and to him, no longer donning both her cloak and her vest while her head was free of her beret and her hair was in a loose bun, with a few strands falling to frame her face.

"Composing at this late hour, monsieur? Unheard of," Jovan remarked, stopping when Ayesha approached her and rubbed herself along the stagehand's legs.

Erik watched the feline with mirth in his eyes. "I'm not like most people, mademoiselle," he retorted quite sarcastically.

"Good. Most people are boring," Jovan answered and Erik bowed in thanks for the compliment. "Don't let it get to your head."

A faint smile tugged at Erik's lips. "It's nothing that I don't already know."

Ayesha finally walked away from Jovan and once she was free to move again, she crossed over to Erik's desk and eyed the papers scattered on it. When her hand gently reached for the closest paper, Erik realized it was the one he'd been writing on.

He watched as Jovan's eyes ran over the written lines, and his heart skipped when the green in her gaze brightened.

"What's the next line?" Jovan inquired, lifting her eyes from the words and meeting Erik's stare. Her tone was laced with curiosity and controlled excitement.

"Oh, somewhere out there. It refuses to come to me," Erik replied.

He must have sounded sarcastic because Jovan arched a brow at him. "Really, Erik?"

"I wanted to write 'The brightest colors fill my head' but it just didn't sound..."

"Like you?"

Erik gave a small nod and watched in bafflement as a smile broke on Jovan's face. She proceeded to sit herself at his desk and grabbed his pen. Erik leaned in closer over her shoulder as she wrote down the words he just said.

"Come on, Erik. 'The darkest colors fill my head' is just too ― well, _dark_. You're not about to strangle someone, are you?"

A rather violent image came unbidden to Erik's mind, escaping from the recesses of his mind, and he shoved the thought away with equal violence and back into the vaults of his past. As he threw away the metaphorical key, Erik swallowed before answering Jovan.

"I came close tonight, sorry to disappoint. The fool Buquet was drinking again during the performance," he said coolly.

"Everyone wants to strangle Buquet, let's be honest."

Once Jovan was finished writing, Erik stared at the parchment with mild irritation. It wasn't because that Jovan had written on it ― he didn't mind, actually ― but rather, he had some difficulty deciphering her tangled handwriting.

"Were you raised in a farm? Is that chicken scratch?"

"Erik, please see if I care."

With a huff, Erik picked up the violin and bow and began to play the far-from-finished piece. The words in his mind fell in sync with the melody, much to his satisfaction, while he could see Jovan intently watching his fingers move about on his violin's neck, pressing and strumming the strings with schooled ease and grace.

"Well?"

"Play the last bit again, the one that goes with the part you're writing," Jovan requested and he obliged. This time, she didn't watch him as her focus fell on the lyrics. As Jovan silently mouthed the words, Erik found himself wondering, not for the first time, what Jovan would sound like if she sang. His eyes followed her lips as the violin sang with the movement of his fingers and the bow.

"Do... do you mind?" Jovan asked Erik when he was done, her hand reaching for his pen as she placed the paper down on his desk.

"Not at all," Erik answered, genuinely curious of the words that her mind had conjured. He watched as she began to write once more, trying not to wince at her penmanship, and stared at the ink and parchment when she was done. He quietly read the entirety of the stanza.

 _For every night I lie in bed_

 _The brightest colors fill my head_

 _A million dreams are keeping me awake_

The words smoothly matched the tune that he played in his head. Erik felt a faint tug in his chest as he continued to stare ― perhaps it was his heart swelling with pride, he absently reckoned, because despite being well aware of Jovan's talent with words, he still couldn't help his surprise at how well her lyric fell in place with the melody he had played.

"Erik?" Jovan's unsure tone broke his stream of thought and he glanced down to see her green eyes staring at him expectantly.

Erik backed away when he belatedly noticed how close he was hovering over her. He sent her a look of approval, his lips tightening into a small smile. Jovan returned one of her own before standing from his desk while Erik carefully placed his violin and bow back in its case on the nearby settee.

"What? Are you done for the night?" Jovan asked as she began to pace around in search of something. Ayesha perhaps, Erik guessed. "Don't let me disturb you."

"I've been working for two hours," Erik provided.

"I recall an instance when you refused to even acknowledge me, one afternoon. I stayed and read for four hours while you banged away at your organ."

"I do not 'bang away,' as you so eloquently put it."

"No, go on. It's alright, really. Don't be shy."

Arching a dark brow, Erik put away the violin case before going to tend to his desk. As he began to methodically fix his papers, he asked, "So you talked to her?"

A beat passed where Jovan fell silent and Erik recognized the air of hesitation that occupied the space. "What?"

"You heard me."

When Erik was done with his papers, he turned to see Jovan standing still. "I... yes. Did you follow me, Erik?"

"No, but your demeanor revealed as much," Erik pointed out.

"I didn't know I was that easy to read."

Truthfully, Jovan was rather easy to read, especially since Erik knew all too well of the emotions that battled with her heart. But he kept this to himself and instead gestured to the divan, offering Jovan a seat.

"What did Elea say?"

Jovan perched herself on the edge of the divan, her fingers tugging at the cuff of her shirt. "She's engaged."

"It was about time, was it not?"

He watched as a genuine smile crossed her lips. "Yes. Aldrich has been courting her before I even came to the opera house."

"But there's more to it, isn't there?"

She gave a nod. "She'll be leaving after the annual Bal Masqué. One more production, and then that's it. Aldrich has been called away to England and, of course, she'll want to be with him."

"I see," Erik said. There really was nothing else to say. Elea was leaving the Opéra Populaire, leaving Jovan behind. The smile had long vanished from Jovan's face but there were no tears in her eyes either. Erik didn't know much about the ballerina, but he was able to surmise that her friendship with Jovan ran deep. The two had obviously known each other far longer than one could guess, as Erik recalled that the two were already familiar with each other on the day that Jovan arrived.

Erik also remembered the first few weeks after Jovan's arrival at his opera house. Elea had hovered over her friend like a mother hen until the redhead had to practically scold the ballerina for being a tad too protective. Erik never understood Elea's vigilant nature until he confronted Jovan in the chapel. The redhead was hiding from something ― correction, _someone_ ― and Elea knew who.

But now that she was leaving...

"She knows why you're here." It was a statement, not a question. Erik stared at Jovan until she pulled her stare away from her hands and met his eyes. Gleaning Jovan's secrets from the leaves of her closed book would be no easy feat, but Erik was willing to take his time (besides, forcibly taking them was something he already tried, and he had failed and had only borne terrible results), understanding that whatever Jovan was hiding was not something pretty. But then again, secrets rarely were. Erik would know, many of his own were ugly.

"She does," Jovan admitted in a quiet voice. "She... she didn't want to accept Aldrich's proposal for me, but I assured her that she did the right thing by accepting. She didn't want to leave me, but I told her that I could take care of myself. She really needs to stop worrying for me all the time."

Her last sentence ended with a small laugh. Erik's hunch was correct, that Elea was indeed playing a part in Jovan's hiding. He knew that the ballerina's departure would not be easy for Jovan, but it astounded him how the redhead could still muster a smile and a laugh for her friend's affair, even if it meant that she was about to lose one more tie to the world outside and the world she had left behind.

"Elea can't stay here forever, especially not for me," Jovan continued, stirring Erik from his thoughts. "It's for the best."

Erik didn't know if he could agree, knowing in himself that he couldn't be as selfless as Jovan was being right now. But to help quiet the evident turmoil in her mind, Erik gave a nod of his head in agreement with her words. He earned a thin-lipped smile in return from her, and it was enough.

Hopefully, things would change for the better once the new year arrived. If Erik couldn't hold that hope for himself, he would for Jovan.

* * *

Author's Note: Lyrics are from 'A Million Dreams' from _The Greatest Showman_. I just tweaked it a bit.


	24. Think Of Me

Author's Note: Look at me, updating fics when I should be studying for CETs. Hermione Granger would be proud of me, I have no damn clue on how to get my priorities straight. I have zero regrets though. Here's another update in the same week because I owe you lovely people that much after such a long absence! I think I'm getting back on track when it comes to having a steady update schedule, yay!

Quick question though ― how is my portrayal of Erik? It's just that I've been through the reviews recently and I realized that there are actually very few comments in total regarding how I write Erik. A little feedback would be nice since I do want to know whether or not I'm doing him justice, especially since I actually find him very easy to write. Pretty please?

* * *

( _twenty-four_ )

 **THINK OF ME**

* * *

New Year came faster than Jovan anticipated. The months that led up to what she came to recognize as Elea's last production and not as the opera about a man who lost his wife to the Devil swiftly rolled by, almost gone in the blink of an eye. But she made sure to make the most out of those last days that she had left with Elea, the ballerina doing the same as they both stole time from before, between, and after rehearsals to spend it together. To Jovan, it was as if they had returned to their old habits, long before she came to the Opéra Populaire and when they were just two young girls who were blind to the cruelties of the world, living in ignorant bliss. However the imminent departure of her best friend still loomed over Jovan like a shadow, haunting her during the moments where she only had her thoughts for company.

When the night before New Year arrived, even Jovan was thrown into the flurry that was the preparation for the Masquerade. It was not the first time that she had to partake in the arrangements so she moved there and about more easily than last time. When the clock struck eight in the evening, that was when the carriages began to arrive, unloading lavishly costumed members of high society into the opera house's grand foyer. Jovan only planned to stick around long enough for Elea and Aldrich to arrive, the couple donning white outfits when they turned up at the entrance. While Elea had told Jovan days ago that she and her fiancé would be emulating the ballet _Swan Lake_ , it seemed more to Jovan that they were already dressed for the altar.

As the Bal Masqué commenced, Jovan remained hidden in one of the upper rings of the foyer, along with a few of the more curious members of the opera staff. She had no plans to meet Elea below in the crowd, having no costume of her own nor the want to embarrass her friend, but Jovan was fine with that. She was content to watch the brunette socialize with other guests and enjoy herself among the sea of masked faces and music. Elea's laughter reached Jovan's hears as a man wearing the outfit of a Roman general whispered something into her ear.

"Who're you spying on?" a voice came from behind her which Jovan instantly recognized as Mateo's.

"Just Elea," Jovan replied as she felt Mateo take the spot on her left, imitating her cross-legged position on the floor.

"You're not going to watch her all night, are you? Because that's... that'd be creepy."

"Heavens, no." Jovan shot the younger stagehand a look of disbelief. "I was actually just about to leave when you arrived."

Mateo didn't seem to hear her reply as his eyes remained glued to the masked multitudes below. "Where do you think the Phantom's at? Perhaps he's among the crowd?"

Jovan refrained from heaving a sigh as Mateo's words pulled her back to the memory of Erik. The Phantom had grown particularly irritable ever since the holidays began, causing Jovan to decrease the frequency of her visits to the man to avoid letting his low spirits dampen her own mood. After a few comments about how inane Christmas was and then one that made sense to Jovan ("What's so delightful about the holidays when the destitute are out there freezing in the snow?"), she had thought it better to spend her time with either Elea or Mateo and not with a moody Opera Ghost. Of course, she'd told Erik about this decision to avoid any misunderstandings in the future, and he'd sent her away with a wave of his hand while mumbling unintelligibly under his breath. Jovan could only hope that his disposition would improve once New Year arrived.

"How am I supposed to know? What's got you so damn interested in the Phantom anyway?" Jovan asked, arching a brow.

"Maybe the fact that he's capable of doing something either very clever or terrifying at any moment," Mateo said with an uneven grin.

"Do you mind clarifying, but do you think that the Phantom's a man or a ghost?"

"Doesn't matter to me, not that it's going to change a single thing around here."

Jovan couldn't agree more, but she bit her lip to stop a reply from escaping her lips. She couldn't exactly tell Mateo that Erik was indeed a bit of both, could she? He was very much a man, yes, with bones beneath his skin and air in his lungs, but he lived his days as a ghost, hiding in shadows and haunting the walls of the opera house. More than anything, it was actually sad, how a genius like Erik had to hide from the world because of one imperfection that could easily be overlooked if only people were a little more kinder.

"Hey," Mateo said as he poked her arm with his elbow. "Julien and I are going down to a nearby pub. Wanna come?"

"What?"

"The Harpy's Haven. Not far and it's pretty obscure."

"I know which pub. And no," Jovan swiftly answered, the idea of being around intoxicated men holding zero appeal to her, even with two other guys to watch over her. Yes, she trusted Mateo, seeing as he was one of her friends and that he was absolutely uninterested in the opposite sex, and Julien a bit too, since he was a fellow stagehand after all and had proven himself over time to be one of the more sensible people around (even if he was still scared silly of the Opera Ghost), but Jovan didn't think that she could pass for a man when it came to going outside the opera house, something that would've been preferable if she did want to go to some public bar. But the risks were just too high, especially the one of being seen and recognized, so she had to decline Mateo's invite, no matter how well-hidden the pub was or how much she wanted to go outside.

"Alright then, suit yourself," Mateo remarked as he stood up before stretching his arms. "Don't stay up late."

"Yes, yes. Your concern is deeply moving," Jovan retorted as she felt his hand give her head a pat before he finally walked away.

Jovan let a moment pass before she too got up to her own feet, dusting her trousers as she did so, and took her leave of the hall. She went straight to the dormitories only to see the room occupied by none other than Christine and Meg. After greeting the two 'Happy New Year' and gaining one in return, Jovan took her cloak and made her way to the rooftop.

Much to her dismay, the place wasn't empty. There was a young couple present, but at least they stayed on the side of the rooftop that was opposite the one Jovan frequented. As her boots fell mute against the white snow, Jovan found herself inching closer to the edge until she was met with a view of the mass of masked people scattered upon the steps that led to the Opéra Populaire.

Even from the rooftop, the music and singing was audible. As if the flirtatious tête-à-tête wasn't enough from the couple in the distance, Jovan found herself wishing that she could just burrow herself into some dark and silent corner of the opera house where she couldn't be bothered until the morning stole away the festivities of the night. The Phantom's lair came to mind, but that was out of the question and Jovan quickly shoved the thought away.

Gathering her thoughts, a feminine giggle that drifted from the couple afar reminded Jovan of Elea once more. She remembered that her friend ― her best friend, her childhood friend ― would be leaving the opera house come the next morning. It would be a difficult thing, Jovan knew, to have to reshape her reality when there would be nothing left but the empty space where Elea used to be. She could only hope that she still had strength to spare in letting go one of the people she held closest to her heart.

When a tear fell from her eye, Jovan quickly wiped it away.

* * *

 _1877_

* * *

"Just ― just put the pin over there."

"Here?"

"A little bit more to the left."

"Here?"

"There," Elea confirmed with a smile as Jovan placed the pin on her hair, finishing the half updo hairstyle that the ballerina had wanted. Placing down the handheld mirror on her lap, Elea looked over her shoulder to Jovan and cracked a grateful grin.

"See? I told you you could it," she teased with a glint in her eye.

"Oh, please. Between the two of us, you're still the better stylist," Jovan replied with a playful roll of her eyes.

"You did more than a decent job," Elea offered as she reached up to gently pat her pinned curls. Jovan stepped away to give Elea some spac,e and she moved around the empty dormitory in attention of the bags that Elea would be taking with her.

Jovan's skirt rustled as she paced, the redhead having thought it appropriate to dress properly for Elea's departure, something that had brought much delight to the ballerina. "Just two bags?"

"Yes, along with the chest."

"Oh," Jovan breathed, watching as Elea stood from the edge of her bed and crossed over to Jovan. There was a tender look in the brunette's blue eyes as she took Jovan's hands in her own.

"Are you sure you'll be alright?" Elea asked, her voice quiet as her fingers rubbed Jovan's hands.

"I will be," Jovan assured her with a faint smile.

"I wish it didn't have to be this way―" Elea began but Jovan cut her off with a gentle shush.

"I don't, Elea. Please, you deserve to be happy too."

"What about you?" Jovan saw tears gathering in the corner of Elea's eyes and the sight pricked her heart.

"I will be, in time. I promise you, I'll be okay here. I'll just write if something comes up."

"Promise?" Elea blinked and the dam broke, her tears falling down her cheeks. Jovan wiped away one of them and gently laid her hand on Elea's jaw.

"You have my word," Jovan bit out, feeling something sting her eyes. "And I'll be good, too."

At that, a shaky laugh escaped Elea, and the ballerina couldn't help herself as she pulled Jovan into her arms and held onto her tightly. Jovan placed her arms around the brunette as well, willing herself not to cry when she'd already used up too much of her tears last night.

"No more punching idiotic stagehands, okay?" Elea said.

Jovan nodded against her friend's shoulder. "They have to stop being stupid first."

Elea made a sound that sounded like a cross between a choke and a cry. When Jovan felt the ballerina's arms tighten around her, she tried to ignore the painful stutter in her chest and began to draw circles on Elea's chest to soothe her.

"Write a damn book," Elea suddenly said, the unforeseen remark making Jovan freeze. Elea must have noticed her tense up as she then pulled away from Jovan and stared her straight in the eye.

"You heard me," Elea chuckled. "If your mother could do it, so could you. I just... don't _stay_ here."

"What?"

Jovan stared at Elea's trembling lips as she mustered the strength to speak. "Don't stay here," she repeated, like it was mantra she wouldn't mind repeating over and over again until it was firmly imprinted at the back of Jovan's mind. "Jovan, please, I don't want you to hide here forever."

As if her chest didn't hurt enough, Jovan's pulse only escalated more when she heard Elea's words. She knew where this was going, and hearing the words would be like getting doused with ice-cold water.

"I know you're hiding from... _him_ ," Elea continued, taking care of the words she was saying, "but, Jovan, you can't do that forever. Someday, you'll have to face him once more and... I don't know when that day will come, but when it does, I can only hope that you'll be ready."

Jovan hoped so too. If it weren't for the dryness in her mouth, she would have vocalized this answer, but she simply gave a nod of her head. What Elea was delivering was a wake-up call, and a painful one ― that, like Elea herself, Jovan too would have to leave this place someday. She couldn't stay in the Opéra Populaire for the rest of her days, it was the truth.

"You still have so much to give to the world, Jovan. So, please, don't allow yourself to waste away here, hiding in the dark. Don't let him do this to you."

A stray thought found its way into her head as Jovan thought that there was someone else in the opera house who dearly needed to hear those words. She could only wonder if he was listening at the moment, and if he was, she hoped that he would heed Elea's heartfelt words.

Jovan's lips moved, mouthing the word "Yes," but no sound left them. It was just all too painful and all too much at the same time that she thought perhaps the silence would help lighten the weight that had began to settle in her chest.

"And if he comes looking for you," Elea said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "tell me."

Jovan gave a nod.

Elea wrapped Jovan in her arms once more with a whimper, and Jovan did the same, wishing that neither of them would let go.

* * *

She stood near the edge of the rooftop once more, watching as Aldrich assisted Elea into the carriage while a few of the ballet corps and Madame Giry stood on the steps of the opera house, waving and shouting their goodbyes. Jovan wished that she could be among them, but she knew better than to go outside looking like herself, her red hair visible and sans cloak to protect her.

Standing in the snow that blanketed the rooftop, Jovan had never felt more alone than she did now in a long time. Heaving a silent sigh, vapors of breath left her parted lips as she watched Elea and Aldrich's carriage stir into motion, rolling further and further away from the opera house until they turned around a corner and vanished from her sight.

"She's gone," a low voice broke the peace, the words escaping like warm honey.

Jovan didn't need to look behind to see who the newcomer was. "Yes."

"How do you feel?"

Jovan turned away from the rooftop's edge and towards the man in the distance. She saw Erik wearing his cloak and his hat, his dark figure contrasting sharply against the snow. Her eyes met his of amber and green, a warm spark replacing the usual intensity they held.

"I'm happy... for her," Jovan whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, but soft enough to prevent her voice from trembling.

A small, rueful smile fell on Erik's lips. He then made his way to Jovan, and a quiet sob left her as he pulled her into his arms.


	25. Night Is Blind

Author's Note: Thank you so, so much to everyone who sent in reviews and who gave their opinions on my portrayal of Erik! I was so pleased to hear from you guys that I'm doing a good job with Erik and that you like my interpretation of him! As for this chapter, this is one of the longest that I've ever written on this website (I don't know what happened, don't look at me). Let me know what you think of it when you're done, alright? And try not to forget to breathe while reading this one. Enjoy!

Kawaii-Shishiza: My mouth was hanging open at 6AM while I was listening to the song because, oh my God, the lyrics just so perfectly fit Erik and Jovan's situation! Like, seriously, I was so shocked at the accuracy. I'm definitely adding that song to this story's playlist. Also, it's deeply flattering to know that this fic always comes to your mind whenever you hear that song. I'm considering your comment as one of the highest compliments I've ever received on any of my works, thank you!

MarieUni: Oh my gosh, thank you so much for your review! And I'm so glad to see someone who similarly enjoys slow burn stories because they are, in my opinion, also the best! As for some Phanfics, the ones I'd recommend are the ones listed under my Favorites on my profile. Though my favorite one has to be Coquillage Atlas' _Ink, Invisible_ ― their portrayal of Erik feels very real and is simply compelling, the OC is a one-of-a-kind heroine, and the romance is a subtle but enjoyable one. It's absolutely worth checking out!

* * *

( _twenty-five_ )

 **NIGHT IS BLIND**

* * *

He found her in Box Four.

Erik had been conducting his usual round of the opera house, his senses heightened by the darkness that enveloped him, when he finally arrived at the corridor that led to the row of boxes. It was part of his routine to check every single one of them, no matter how arduous or repetitive of a task it was, but it was for the best, Erik knew, since the last time he'd caught something unsavory occurring in his opera house, it had been a stagehand trying to force himself on one of the ballet rats. Erik had caught the two somewhere in a darker part of the auditorium and he had notified Madame Giry before the trouble could escalate. He could only be thankful that he had not been too late.

The hallway was dark but it was not an obstacle for Erik's astute sight. He'd grown up in the shadows after all, practically thrived in the darkness which he had learned, over time, to use to his advantage. As he pushed in a door of another box, his gaze was immediately drawn to the soft glow of a candle atop one of the velvet chairs. Behind it was a familiar face, the edges of her unmistakable figure softly blurred by the darkness surrounding her.

Jovan looked ready to spring up at any second when her eyes met Erik's. There was alarm in them, and he watched as it dwindled away before being replaced with relief and indignation. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles as she glared at him.

"A knock would have been _nice_ , you lunatic," she bit out as she fell back on the floor.

Erik pushed the door all the way through and stood in the doorway, the candlelight adding an eerie glow to his white mask. "I beg to differ. A knock would have only startled you more."

"Eh." Jovan gave a wave of her hand from her spot on the floor. Erik saw, on the chair before her, that she had not only brought a candle with her but also some paper, a pen, and an inkwell. So she was writing. Hardly surprising, even given the late hour, since Erik himself was a willing victim to his passions even if the hour was an ungodly one.

He had half the mind to scold some sense into her, to make her see how idiotic her idea was of lurking around the opera house at night, especially since she was on her own, but Erik stilled his tongue before a word could escape. There was a lingering suspicion that Jovan was drunk, but he dismissed the idea when he could not smell a trace of alcohol in the small space. His eyes fell on Jovan as she lost interest in him, and her focus returned to her writing, the pen settled between her fingers as she crossed out an entire line of what seemed to be a poem to Erik.

"Let's go out for a walk," he suddenly blurted out, causing Jovan to freeze as she raised her eyes to blink them at him.

"Pardon? A walk?" Jovan echoed, disbelief crossing her features.

"You do know what the word means, yes?" Erik snapped.

He felt Jovan's temper flare when her eyes narrowed at him. "Of course I do―"

Erik didn't give her the chance to finish as he swooped down without any warning and blew out her candle.

" _Erik!_ "

They were plunged into total darkness in the blink of an eye. He heard her rise to her feet with a slight stumble, the sound of her boots slightly muted by the carpet below them. In the dark, Erik watched Jovan's faint outline as she gave her surroundings a frantic scan, one hand reaching for something in the pocket of her trousers. Matches, he presumed.

"I thought you could see in the dark," Erik drolly asked.

"That doesn't mean that I prefer walking around without any light!"

Erik grabbed the candle from the chair before she could reach it, and he heard her hand slam on the surface. Jovan made an indignant sound.

"We are going _out_ ," he stated in tone that left no space for negotiation.

"Are you _mad?_ " Jovan hissed, but Erik was unfazed.

"Yes, and I've been told so many times. It's apparently one of my most endearing traits."

"I find myself wondering what on God's green Earth could have possessed you to fancy a _stroll_ at such an unreasonable hour."

"I am the Opera Ghost, mademoiselle. I do whatever I want whenever I please."

* * *

The truth that Erik was not telling Jovan was that this walk was for _her_. He would just leave it for her to fathom herself, not doubting that she would realize it before the night would be over. During all of the times that he told her that he saw everything in his opera house, Erik meant it. And on the days that followed Elea's departure, he had not missed the change in her demeanor. Sulking for a long period of time was not something that Erik pushed past Jovan, and he knew it was only natural for her to be morose after her closest friend just left her, but Erik had grown genuinely concerned. It simply didn't sit well with him to watch Jovan be reduced to a moping shell of herself when such didn't suit her.

He'd watched as the smiles that curved her lips bore the faintest hints of sadness. Her laughter came in mere short bursts, even if it was that jovial stagehand friend of hers that she was speaking to. There where nights when he'd catch her wide awake even when all her roommates had fallen fast asleep a few hours ago, those green eyes of hers glued to the bed next to hers, the one that Elea used to occupy and the one that remained vacant for the time being. A shadow fell upon her fair face whenever a ballet routine was being rehearsed, and a hollow look found its place in her distant stare. It honestly worried Erik because the last time that she had acted this way was during the first few months following her arrival at the Opéra Populaire.

Indeed, even though she'd only piqued his interest two months after she arrived, it didn't go amiss that she was rather sullen as she adjusted to her new job as a stagehand. However, she had mostly hidden it behind a facade of aloofness. But Erik knew masks when he saw them, and it didn't take long for him to take notice of the sadness she always seemed to carry. The greatest piece of evidence arrived during one morning in the rooftop, one he still remembered with perfect clarity as she had bathed in the soft rays of the rising sun.

" _I've been searching for God everywhere but I just can't find him._ "

Her present, demeanor, however, was _worse_. Her grief was no longer just in the subtle details, but it also manifested in her habits. While working in the rafters, Erik could only compare her to an automaton, moving mechanically with a mere curt nod whenever orders were given her way. The nights where she stayed up late only grew in number, either spent staring at the empty bed beside her or furiously writing away on parchment. Come morning, the shadows under her eyes were a testament of how much hours of the night she had wasted by not sleeping.

So Erik had decided that a change of scenery might help her.

Not that he'd been planning this walk for days, however. In fact, he had only come up with the idea the second he stepped into Box Four.

When he returned to his lair where he had left Jovan, Erik had with him a skirt and a wig. As he stepped into his home, he saw that the girl had not moved from where he left her, on a large armchair with his copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ in her hands.

Erik cleared his throat to announce his return, prompting Jovan to lower the book on her lap before she arched a brow at him in question, eyeing, with an air of doubt, the things he held in his arms.

"Where did you get those?"

"The costume department," Erik provided.

"You _stole_ from the costume department?"

He gave an innocent shrug. "I _borrowed_ from the costume department. Be that as it may, these are from past productions. Rest assured no one shall be missing them."

Jovan rose from the armchair, gently placing down the book, before walking to Erik. He held out the skirt and the wig for her to see, and she took the garment first to inspect it. It was a walking skirt, much like the one she loved to use instead of an actual dress, only this one was a dark burgundy. Draping the skirt over her arm, she took the wig next, taking it from Erik with such caution that he was sure it was her first time to hold one. The wig was blonde, a light shade that Erik knew would complement her complexion.

"I'll help you with the wig. Get dressed first."

Much to his pleasant surprise, Jovan obeyed without so much as a retort or a question. She was wearing trousers and a white button-up shirt, her usual work clothes but minus the vest, only this was a fresh set she'd put on after everyone else had gone to bed and she'd gone out to write. She would only have to put on the skirt which Erik knew wouldn't take long. Less than five minutes later, she emerged from his bathroom donning the burgundy skirt while she held her neatly-folded trousers in one hand.

Erik instructed her next to neatly braid her hair into two braids. Again, she gave no questions as she proceeded to untie her hair from its untidy bun. As she ran her fingers through her locks to untangle them, Erik tried not to stare at the red curls that cascaded past her shoulders. It had been a year since she last cut it, and the tresses now ran past her shoulders, ending just a few inches above her shoulder blades, the longest she had allowed them to grow since she came to the opera house. But now that her hair reached that length, Jovan tended to tie it up before fully obscuring it from sight with her beret during work. To see it now unconfined and in plain view, Erik found himself wondering how her red locks would feel between his fingers―

Erik clenched his fist as he walked to his desk, dropping the wig there before taking out a wig cap from his pocket and dropping that too. Behind him, Jovan began to braid her hair. Drawing in a breath, he smoothed his hair back with his hands as if that would help empty his mind from the thoughts that were invading his head a moment ago. He wasn't quite sure were those thoughts had come from, nor did he know why they made his heart stutter. To distract himself, he left for his room and began to search the place for any hair pins.

He came back a few minutes later, and when he saw that Jovan had finished braiding her hair, he motioned for her to sit at his desk. She obeyed, her lack of a comment surprising him once more as Erik realized that he wasn't actually pleased with the silence that hung in the air. Passing her a hand mirror he had also taken from his room, he began to pin back the braids flat against her head.

"You're uncharacteristically quiet," he pointed out.

"There's nothing to talk about," was Jovan's casual reply.

"I made tea earlier."

"I don't want tea." There was a small tinge of disgust in her tone, and Erik had to wonder why she disliked tea of all things.

"It's not for you, it's for me."

"Then why did you tell me that you made tea?"

"It's a nice start for a conversation."

"No, Erik. It's a nice start for an argument."

"Is there a difference?"

Erik felt that Jovan wanted to turn her head ― to glare daggers at him, no doubt ― but he held her in place so he could finish his work. Once the last pin had been put in place, firmly placing her braids flat across the back of her head, he proceeded to place the wig cap on her.

"Are we really arguing over tea?" Jovan asked incredulously.

"We're _arguing_ , alright." At least she was talking now, Erik noted with a twitch of his lips.

"Only because you're so good at it." He could practically hear her roll her eyes when she spoke, and Erik refrained from chuckling as he took the wig from his desk.

"So are you," Erik replied as he fitted the wig on Jovan's head.

"Nothing better than a nice argument to get the blood rushing, don't you think?" came her sarcastic reply.

"Not the only way though," Erik answered and bit his tongue the moment the words came out, realizing that he had just said a possible double entendre if one looked deep enough into his words. Relief flooded his veins though when he saw that Jovan didn't seem to notice, her hand raising the mirror in her hand as she stared at Erik's work with her hair and the wig.

There was a strange glint in her green eyes as Jovan inspected her reflection. Erik recognized it as stupefaction and unfamiliarity, a combination that lent a haunted look to Jovan. He did have to admit that with her red hair out of sight and replaced with blonde tresses, Jovan looked like an entirely different person. No one would be able to persuade him now that this was the same girl who had punched a stagehand almost two years ago, nor would he willingly believe anyone who told him that she ran around the rafters of the Opéra Populaire wearing men's clothes. And with that, Erik knew that he had triumphed in creating a passable disguise.

"I look... This isn't me," she remarked in an indecipherable tone.

"That is the aim of a disguise, yes?" Erik answered. "Now come. The night isn't getting any younger."

* * *

Jovan wasn't quite sure why she ended up agreeing to Erik's ludicrous suggestion of walking outside at night, but now she found herself not regretting that he had succeeded in swaying her.

They had left through another passageway that led to the back of the opera house, in a dark corner where too many shadows had gathered that no sober person in the distance would be able to notice a soul slipping by. As Jovan stepped out of the shade, it was much to her relief and delight when she saw that the street before her was devoid of any other presence besides hers and Erik's.

The cool night air pervaded the empty street. Jovan felt Erik step to the spot beside her as she took in her surroundings with a quiet breath of wonder, the cobblestone beneath their feet faintly illuminated by a streetlamp not far from where they stood. As Jovan took a step forward, it then hit her that this was the first time that she would be stepping out of the Opéra Populaire in almost two years. The thought made her dizzy, and her breathing hitched as her gaze fell, her hands trembling from beneath the hooded cloak that Erik had lent her.

 _Two years?_

"Something wrong?" Erik's cool tone broke the silence.

"Nothing," Jovan lied even if she knew that Erik would see through it anyway. Everything was _wrong_ , she wanted to say. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine that she would find herself in these circumstances ― living far from home, hiding from someone, staying among the working class, having her morality constantly questioned... There was a painful stab in her chest as she grabbed her right hand with her left one in an attempt to stop the shaking. Her vision began to blur with tears once more but she blinked them back, exasperated at herself for how much tears she'd wasted ever since Elea left.

How did it all lead to this? This was not a question she frequently confronted herself with because it always faced her with an almost unbearable ache when she had to look back at the events that had transpired to lead to her current situation. Jovan didn't want to go down memory lane, the night was too good for that, and she drew in deep breaths to calm the roaring in her chest. She felt a shadow looming over her and Jovan looked up to see that Erik had inched closer, the concern visible in his dark expression. She forced out a chuckle, a warmth settling in her chest as it drove out some of her apprehension when she met his amber and green eyes.

Everything was wrong, she wanted to stay. But maybe she was wrong, now seeing the enigma of a man beside her. Jovan would not admit it aloud now, but she was utterly grateful to Erik. With him, breathing just seemed a little bit easier than the previous moment when he wasn't there. She mustered a smile just for him, shaking her head to dismiss his worries. She squared her shoulders, dropped her hands to her side, and scanned the street with a curious eye.

"What time is it?"

"It's three in the morning," Erik answered.

"We've been awake for that long?"

"Funny how fast time flies, is it not?"

Erik then offered his arm to Jovan, and she took it without question. He wore his cloak and his hat, which was tipped lower on one side to shadow the mask resting on his face. They quietly decided on a slow pace as they strolled under the soft glow of the few streetlamps that littered the street, the silence undisturbed save for her footfalls (Erik was always quiet whenever he walked ― she could not fathom how he had mastered such a skill). Jovan took her time to inspect her surroundings as they made a good distance from the opera house, the closed shops and buildings that they passed by going unmissed by her gaze. Very little had changed, Jovan noticed, yet everything no longer felt familiar, and whichever corner they turned, she felt like a ghost who was aimlessly wandering. There was barely another soul awake to witness her, and she never felt more insignificant than she did at that moment. But at the same time, it was an oddly pleasant feeling, to be free from the judging eyes of society and to feel as if she were one with the night and the silence.

She felt free.

* * *

"So your mother was a novelist?"

"Didn't anyone tell you that eavesdropping is rude?"

A deep chuckle rumbled in Erik's chest as Jovan arched a brow at him. Of course he had eavesdropped on her conversation with Elea on the day that the latter left the opera house. Old habits die hard, Erik supposed, but he just couldn't resist the possibility of learning something from Jovan's hazy past. And he was right ― while the two were saying their goodbyes, Elea had indeed dropped a few clues that helped to shed a little light on the dark pages of Jovan's history. One of the more interesting things that he'd learned was that Jovan's mother had written a book, hence why he brought it up now.

"I have no interest in being polite," Erik answered.

"You have no interest in acting like a normal human being."

"But being a ghost is much more _fun_."

Jovan was no longer holding on to his arm but she was walking a few feet away from his right, half of her attention taken by the bushes that she was passing by. They had happened upon a park during their night stroll, and Erik watched as Jovan eyed the roses on the shrubs with a twinkle in her eyes.

"Jovan," Erik prompted, unable to hold in his curiosity. Sure, it was no wonder now where Jovan's talent came from ― if she didn't inherit her father's skill for music, it only made sense that she got her way with words from her mother ― but the matter was just too intriguing. A female writer? It was unheard of, extremely rare, and something that society even considered to be rather scandalous. Erik didn't share their narrow views, of course, there was absolutely nothing wrong to be found with a woman being a writer. He wondered though how Jovan's mother handled the whispers that surely surrounded her because of her occupation.

"She wrote a book before she married my father," Jovan's reply came after a beat. " _The Hanged Man_ was its title, a story about the power struggle between the members of a highborn family while the youngest son falls for a courtesan."

Erik grinned. "I imagine that must have made quite an uproar."

"It did," Jovan answered with a smile as she knelt down before a shrub. "She had wanted to publish it under a pseudonym, but the publisher advised against it. It became a bestseller, for both reasons that a woman had written it and that its plot was simply a compelling one."

Erik could hear the pride lacing her tone as she narrated her mother's work. As he listened, a memory rose to the surface of his consciousness, of one morning when he saw Jovan in the chapel. She wasn't praying, he remembered, but she was reading a poem she had written, an elegy. He remembered that when she mentioned her parents, it was with an inkling of fondness, her voice free of any trace of bitterness. The same still happened now, Erik noticed, as she recalled her mother with a warmth in her words. He could only wonder what made such tenderness possible, as Erik had only known the screams and the beatings of his mother when he was a child, and found himself unable to evoke the same affection Jovan clearly held for her mother.

When he felt ice building up in his veins, Erik cleared his mind of the shadows that began to collect in his thoughts. Instead, he took note of the title that Jovan mentioned, telling himself that he would search for it later.

"You do know that that's prohibited," he remarked when he heard a rustling from where Jovan was. She had knelt down on the sidewalk and was reaching for something in the shrub before her. Erik presumed that she was trying to pluck one of the white roses growing amid the viridescent leaves.

"What are you going to do, send me to the gendarmes?" Jovan scoffed before rising to her feet. As Erik approached her, she turned to him with a rose in her hand, its white petals in full bloom and its alluring scent reaching Erik's nose.

"My, my. I'm afraid you've been spending too much time around me. I can only fault myself for the dastardly habits that you seem to have picked up from me," Erik berated her with an air of playfulness.

Jovan was holding the rose in a spot where the thorns were absent. There was a light scratch on her other hand from where she'd been fumbling with the bush. "Worry not. I assure you no one will be missing a harmless, little rose."

Erik gave an amused hum as they resumed walking, this time with Jovan closer to him as she toyed with the rose in her hands. "I didn't think you had it in you to actually go out and leave the opera house at times," remarked Jovan after a moment's passage.

"Now why would you think that? I do have to buy groceries, you know." Erik rolled his eyes.

"I thought you only pilfered the kitchens and the pantry."

He narrowed his eyes at Jovan. "Where do you think all those francs from my salary go to?"

"...Your clothes?"

" _My clothes?_ "

"I bet you have them tailored."

Well, Erik _did_ have his clothes tailored, he would have nothing but the finest after all, but he wasn't about to admit that out loud. Instead, he gave a mere shrug of his shoulders.

The silence enveloped them again, only punctuated by Jovan's footfalls on the sidewalk. As far as Erik knew, they seemed to be aimlessly walking, his feet simply following where Jovan seemed to be going. She didn't seem to have a particular destination in mind, and if she did, she had yet to tell him about it. Erik didn't bother to ask, having something else on his mind.

"I heard you speaking with Monsieur Lefèvre the other day."

"Oh did you?" Jovan gave Erik a pointed look; he ignored it.

"You told him that you wanted to move to the costume department."

Jovan licked her lips with a nod. "I did. Thought I ought to finally put all those embroidery lessons to use."

"Why didn't you just choose to do that from the beginning?"

A brief moment passed where Jovan gave no response. She seemed to be considering what reply she would give Erik. He still remembered the day when she had talked to Monsieur Lefèvre regarding what job she would take inside the opera house. A place among the instrumentalists, ballet corps, or singers was immediately thrown out the window when Jovan had admitted that she had no musical talents, and she only grew more adamant when Monsieur Lefèvre suggested that she try to audition. The manager had then offered her a place among the art department, but Jovan declined that too, remarking that she wasn't good when it came to art either, and that a minimum amount of socialization was something that she wanted in a job (this would not be possible if she joined the art department, seeing that the staff working in that area always had to be onstage to help with the set design and scenery).

"I didn't really want to put up with costuming all those girls in the closed spaces of the dressing rooms," Jovan finally answered after a full minute's passage. "I didn't have the patience before either to deal with all that sewing and stitching."

"You're not patient when it comes to details, are you?" Erik was beginning to learn this as he also recalled Jovan's disinterest when it came to playing instruments, something that required focus to its smallest facets. For example, a misplaced finger could produce the wrong note and end up ruining a whole piece.

"It depends, I guess," was Jovan's quiet answer. "I could learn."

Erik gave a thoughtful hum at her words as he wondered how different things could have been if she'd just taken up being a seamstress from the start. Monsieur Lefèvre's stupefied reaction came back to Erik's mind when the manager had heard of Jovan's suggestion that she join the stagehands. Erik himself had raised a brow at the idea while he was hidden in the passageway leading to the manager's office. Meanwhile, Monsieur Lefèvre had gone on to list off the dangers of a girl working among men in an opera house. Sadly, Erik was unable to hear what Jovan had to say to Monsieur Lefèvre to persuade the manager to let her have the job among the stagehands, seeing that she had led him away from his office once he was done with his tirade before they proceeded to continue their conversation in hushed voices that were just too low for Erik to hear and decipher.

He'd been so lost in thought that Erik had failed to realize it when he and Jovan came upon a new scene. Gone was the road beside the park, and the streetlamps had significantly decreased in number as the two of them stood submerged in the shadows for the moment. He saw that Jovan had stopped walking and that he had unconsciously followed suit. As Erik trained his gaze further away, to where Jovan's distant gaze had wandered, he saw that not far from where they stood was the cemetery.

* * *

She tried not to hold her breath as she walked in the cemetery.

With every turn she took, there were always sculptures of angels, hooded figures, and praying saints awaiting Jovan, looming over her in their large stature as if they were sentinels watching over the dead. The gray marble looked pitch black to her under the curtain of night, adding an eerie gloom to what was already a bleak place. Even in their multitudes, the statues only served to make Jovan feel more alone, with Erik's strong presence by her side only a small reminder that that wasn't the case.

Silence became their other companion ever since she and Erik stepped foot into the cemetery, and neither of them had dared to speak a word since them. Though the quiet hung heavy around them, Jovan did not dare to break it, and Erik seemed to share the same partiality. Something unspeakable hung between them the moment Jovan knew that her own feet had led the both of them to the cemetery, and whatever that was still remained unspoken. She hadn't always planned to go here, but it was just somewhere along the way that she decided that a visit to her family's resting place was only proper. But she wasn't only doing this because she felt obligated to do so, but also because she knew she needed it.

Her feet drove her, almost mechanically, to the place she had in mind. She knew the way like it was the back of her hand, scorched into memory by the countless visits that she used to make back when her mother and brother had died. Within a matter of minutes, she finally arrived at the place. Jovan realized that Erik no longer walked beside her but had began to trail a few feet behind her ― when exactly he began doing so she could not remember, but it seemed to her that he had done so to give her much-needed space, for which Jovan was quietly grateful for.

She stared at the mausoleum before her, the four Grecian pillars in its front and the dark, gaping hole in the middle that was the entrance. Jovan felt her breath hitch as her heart hammered, the memory of her years before coming to the Opéra Populaire coming back to her in a vicious flood that threatened to consume her in its current. As the cold night air nipped at the skin of her bare hands, Jovan felt moisture beginning to gather in her eyes, and she raised her eyes to prevent the tears from falling, but her astute gaze only found the name carved into the marble of the mausoleum, decipherable and clear as day even in the dead of the night.

 _SAUVETERRE_

* * *

As Jovan stood before the mausoleum, Erik lingered not far behind her, taking in the new scene before him as his mind whirred with countless questions.

For a moment, he was back in the passageway leading to the dormitories, in that dark and dank tunnel with the red-haired stagehand before him. A rosy apple in her hand, Erik recalled the moment, with perfect clarity, that she had trusted him with what he knew to be an essential part of herself, a piece of who she was and who she had been in the past.

 _Nathalie Jovan Sauveterre._

 _Nathalie._

Erik had yet to try and call her by that name, though he was genuinely curious as to how she would react if he'd started doing so. However, he knew better than to try that right now, recognizing how important this moment must be to her after being holed up in the opera house for two years. He watched as Jovan began to fumble with something, reaching into something within her person that Erik could not see from his standpoint. After hearing what sounded like scratching, his sharp eyes picked up the soft glow of a light before Jovan. A candle, Erik realized, probably the same one that he had taken from her in Box Four. She had probably retrieved it when he'd placed it on his desk at his home before he left for the costume department.

It was then that Erik found his feet moving again as he warily walked towards Jovan. As he came to her side, he saw that she was indeed holding a lit candle in the same hand as the white rose. There were tears in her eyes threatening to spill, a quiet but pained look painting her features as she stared ahead at the mausoleum's entrance. Erik watched as she drew in a breath before she began to walk, her pace slow and cautious as she took short strides towards the entrance.

Erik kept his distance as he entered the mausoleum not long after she did. Of course it was dark inside, and the candle Jovan held was too insufficient to light the whole place up. But Erik knew that that was not why she had brought the candle, and his eyes followed her dark form as she neared the line of tombs to the left.

A few of the names lining the tombs became visible to Erik as Jovan neared the flame to the marble. The first that he saw was _Raphael_ , which he recognized as the name belonging to Jovan's father as she had mentioned so before. Then there was _Mila_ and _Léon_ , the former of which he guessed to be her mother's while he was unsure of the latter.

"My father wanted me to work in the Opéra Populaire," Jovan's low voice echoed in the dark space. "Though not as a stagehand, I'm sure."

Erik was quick to pick up the hollowness in her voice, and he knew then that Jovan was not there with him, but she was lost in the past. He came closer to the tombs Jovan stood before and he studied the names carved into the marble.

"Not as a seamstress either, I believe," he answered.

"No." There was a small tremble in her voice as she spoke, accompanied with a small, shaky laugh. "But when he saw that pursuing music was not in my interest, he had understood..."

Erik saw the fair column of her neck move as she swallowed, trailing away with her words. He quietly waited for her to continue, his curiosity about her past almost insatiable now that she was finally opening up. Perhaps, finally, his questions about the enigma that was Jovan could finally be put to rest, much like the rot behind the tombs that surrounded him now. He was so close now...

"You know, when I first came to the opera house seeking refuge, I was so surprised when Madame Giry was so quick to let me in," Jovan continued, though Erik was startled with the small change of topic. "I didn't think the Opéra Populaire sheltered many runaways, so I was stunned at how familiar she seemed to be with my situation. But now, I understand. I see."

In the dark, Erik felt Jovan's gaze land on him, and his heart skipped a beat. By now, he knew that she was well aware of his connection to Antoinette (he didn't think she could easily forget how the ballet headmistress had stumbled upon them before) but he also knew that she just wasn't quite aware yet of how deeply his bond with Antoinette ran. He was actually surprised she had not brought the matter up after Antoinette caught them, nor did Jovan speak of it in the days that followed. Not until now.

When Erik didn't answer, Jovan continued. "She knew of you, Erik. Another person, much like me, who chose the Opéra Populaire as their hideaway. You, arguably the opera house's most important persona."

The question she wanted to say but kept silent about hung in the air, palpable and waiting to be answered, practically begging. Jovan's eyes had yet to leave Erik while his stare was still glued to the tombs in front of him. He knew of what Jovan wanted to ask, but did he want to answer? He had long come to terms with his own past, but to bring it out there to be heard by someone else, even just a small part of it, was entirely another matter. Could he be brave enough to bare the tragedy he hid behind his walls and his mask?

Erik turned his head and locked eyes with Jovan in the dark. And when he saw the tenderness swimming in those green hues of hers, only intensified by the soft glow of candlelight, he realized that he could.

Besides, he knew that before he could take, he also had to give.

"Antoinette rescued me," Erik quietly began. "I was one of the exhibits of a traveling freak show handled by gypsies. 'The Devil's Child,' they called me. They locked me up in a cage for people to gawk and laugh at. When we came to Paris, Antoinette and her ballet corps had dropped by for a visit. She was no older than sixteen when she took me away."

There was much more to that part of Erik's life, but he chose not to divulge any more at that moment. Not the name of the showman he had strangled prior to escaping, not the sack he had worn over his face as his mere protection against the people who came to gape at him, not the scars that now traced his body from the years he spent in captivity. Erik just couldn't bear to do so when he was just doing this for the first time with another person besides Antoinette. However, he knew to his credit, that it was a good start.

He waited, holding his breath, for Jovan's reaction as he refused to break his stare away from her. She seemed adamant to do the same, her lips parted as she bore an unreadable expression on her face. Then she spoke.

"What kind of life have you known since then?" Her voice, with its huskiness, sounded warm to his ears at that moment.

"Not an easy one," Erik replied. "It wasn't only you that God chose to left behind, Jovan."

The air stirred as Jovan's eyes left his, drifting back to the tombs and the names before her. There was an edge in her voice when she began to speak once more.

"You must have thought me foolish when I said that I was hiding because of my face," Jovan said. "Unfortunately, I still cannot take back what I said because it remains irrevocably true."

"Why so?"

Jovan shook her head, her gaze falling. "Ask me something else, just ― not that."

Erik acquiesced, and he raised a gloved hand to one of the names on the tombs and traced the letters. _Léon._ "Who's this?"

A heavy exhale left her, but Erik did not miss the small, upward twitch of her lips. "My younger brother."

Erik blinked. Not once had she mentioned that she had a younger brother, even if he was only eavesdropping on her conversations with Elea or Mateo.

"What happened to him?" he prodded. By now, Erik was sure that, while Jovan's past was a sensitive subject for her, particularly the reason why she was hiding, any matter regarding her deceased parents was one that she can tread on without any reticence. Erik could only hope that the same went for this younger brother that he was only hearing about now.

"He died shortly after my mother did during childbirth."

"Of what reasons?"

Jovan gave him a glance, and, in that brief moment, Erik managed to catch the faint glimmer of sympathy in the green of her eyes. Something about it made his heart clench, not in a terrible way. His pulse quickened as he wondered what Jovan had for an answer.

"You see, when my mother gave birth to me, there were a lot of complications. Though I was perfectly healthy when I was born, the doctors had told her that she was no longer fit for another child. I should be the first and last child she should attempt to have."

His eyes never left Jovan as she began to run a finger down the stem of the rose she held.

"Nine years later though, she was with child again. When she gave birth to Léon... well, like the doctors said, her body would no longer be able to take it. She died while giving birth. Léon, however..."

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if the act would lend her some strength.

"He was born too early. Not only that, but... I still remember the midwife's reaction when she first held him in his arms."

Erik tensed, the story sounding too familiar, hitting too close to home. "What was her reaction?"

"She screamed," Jovan whispered. "Father and I had immediately rushed to the room to see what had happened, and ― Mother was no longer breathing, yes, but that wasn't all. The midwife had immediately shoved my brother into Father's arms before running out of the room. I didn't know whom to approach first ― Mother or Léon... But when I came close to Léon..."

Erik didn't realize that he was holding his breath until he felt a flare in his chest. He noticed Jovan's fingers tightening around her candle.

"He was missing his nose and an eye. His nasal cavity was exposed..." Jovan drew in a shuddering breath in remembrance. "And he was small. He was so, _so_ small..."

There was an urge to take a step back, to back away until he was out of the mausoleum and back under the dark, familiar canvas of the night. But Erik stilled himself and clenched his fists, waiting for Jovan's next words. There was ice building up in his veins, but if whether it was from fear, anger, sorrow, or damned _sympathy_... Erik refused to acknowledge it.

"He didn't last two days. But if he had... lasted much longer, I couldn't stop thinking―"

A hand flew to her lips as Jovan's head dropped. Erik didn't realize that a tear had fallen down her cheek until the light of the candle caught it. He couldn't understand ― why was she crying? Why didn't she finish? What had she thought of her brother? Was she disgusted with him―

"What?" Erik snapped before he could stop himself. Jovan's eyes found his, and he saw that there was the smallest glint of anger in them, before her gaze softened once more and left his.

He waited as Jovan bent and gently placed the white rose on the floor of the mausoleum. When she straightened up once more, she quickly wiped away her tears with the sleeve of her shirt.

"I couldn't stop thinking," she began, her voice regaining a tenacity that had been previously absent, "that had he lived, I would have done everything in my power to make sure that he would not have to hear anyone scream again when they looked at him. I would have done _anything_ to take back the midwife's scream of horror that was the first thing he had to hear in his short life."

A chill rode up Erik's spine as he heard the muted anger lacing her words, the resolve and the regret that accompanied them. He could do nothing but stare at the revelation before him as the pieces fell into place, perfect and just waiting to be put together after all this time. It all made so much sense now ― the girl's audacity to engage him in conversation as if he were any other person on the night they first met, how she never ran away from him in spite of the vile stories that surrounded him, why she was so accepting of the mask that he wore that she barely seemed to mind it...

Something warm sang in his veins as he felt the world around him grow still. In that dark space surrounded by the dead, it was just Erik and Jovan then. As he stared at Jovan, the blonde locks of her wig falling to frame her face, her expression a portrait of both melancholy and silent fury, and the candlelight enlivening the spark in her dark gaze, Erik felt something snake and wrap itself around his heart. He saw a vine in his mind, its thorns pricking his chest, causing him to see red. But it wasn't the red of anger that he saw, it was the red of something else entirely...

The rustle of Jovan's skirt and cloak shook Erik out of his thoughts as she then turned on her heel and swiftly strode out of the mausoleum on steady feet. Left in the dark, Erik watched in silence as Jovan blew out the candle once she was outside before she pocketed it. There were no longer tears on her eyes, but there was a bright sheen in them, something that had been absent from her gaze these past few weeks. Erik's heart raced when she then turned back to him, her eyes meeting his in the dark.

"Come on, Erik. Let's go home."

Erik followed.


	26. Stages Of Grief

Author's Note: Before we go ahead, allow me to do some shameless self-promoting first. You might have come across a fic titled _Darling, Dearest, Dead_ while scouring the archives for this film, and I'd like to let you all know it's actually my second story for this category. The plot revolves around Erik being still very much alive in the 21st century with a supernatural twist to it. I know that it sounds like the other modern-day AU fics around here, but trust me when I say that that's where the similarities end. Maybe go check it out, pretty please?

On another note, Kawaii-Shishiza asked in a review if I could share the playlist that I have for this story, so I'm going to go ahead and post two or three of those songs from the playlist in every other chapter. Please take note that the songs that I'll be disclosing do not necessarily have anything to do with the chapter they're listed in. The playlist for this story is composed of 1.) songs that I put on blast whenever I have to get into the right mood for writing another chapter; and 2.) songs that I believe paint a perfect picture of what Erik's and Jovan's respective situations are like. Enjoy!

Playlist:  
01\. I Found by Amber Run  
02\. Burn It Down by Daughter  
03\. Dangerous Night by Thirty Seconds to Mars (sort-of suggested by Kawaii-Shishiza, thank you!)

* * *

( _twenty-six_ )

 **STAGES OF GRIEF**

* * *

" _Ow!_ "

Erik's fingers slipped on the ivory keys of his organ as he heard Jovan exclaim behind him. The piece he was playing ended with a discordant note as he looked over his shoulder to see the girl on one of the divans, a mass of red fabric on her lap and a needle between her fingers. It was obvious that Jovan had pricked herself with the small wicked thing, but she merely carried on with her work with only a grimace on her face to tell of her small mishap, while Erik's look of annoyance went missed. When it became apparent that she was not going to take notice of him, whether by intention or not, Erik returned to his instrument and began to play once more.

It was a quiet Sunday morning when Erik had found a set of red curtains among his belongings, one of his many souvenirs from Persia, that he noticed had come undone by its seams. Though he knew better than to throw the expensive fabric away, Erik just didn't have it in himself then to mend the damage himself when he had a melody in his head that was just begging to be penned down. Instead, he had come up with an idea ― one that he thought to be rather brilliant, thank you very much ― that would not only work to his advantage but also to someone else's. He had immediately went up to search for Jovan, whom he found poring over a newspaper, before he brought her down to his home with a proposition.

Erik had reasoned that she needed the practice while Jovan simply called him lazy. After a little more persuasion and a small scuffle where he had almost tripped over the curtains, Jovan finally agreed to mend the fabric for him along with a half-hearted admission that she did need the practice before she could officially become a part of the costume department.

Half an hour later, Jovan had yet to finish her work with the curtains while Erik's feet were littered with numerous pieces of parchment with his writing on them, nowhere near the end of his latest piece as well. The tune in his head was not turning out as well he had initially anticipated when it came to writing it down, and it was beginning to get on his nerves.

With a huff, Erik dropped his pen and sprung up from his bench, his jaw clenched as he walked away from his organ. Frustration marred his features as he walked toward the middle of his cavern, a nearby ottoman becoming the poor victim to his vexation as he kicked it away, failing to notice that Jovan's feet were propped against it.

"Erik, what the―"

But Jovan's startled protest landed on deaf ears as he began to unbutton the cuffs of his shirt before he proceeded to roll his sleeves up until his elbows. It was simply aggravating how the notes were not matching up to create a congruous tune! Eyebrows furrowed in irritation, he massaged his forehead with one hand as he began to pace around in circles. For heaven's sake, why couldn't he _focus_ ―

"Erik," Jovan called out. "You're going to wear out your shoes if you don't stop."

"Good, I need a new pair anyway," Erik retorted in a sharp tone.

"We all perfectly know that that's not true," a new voice joined in, and Erik's head whipped into the direction of the newcomer only to see Antoinette at the mouth of one of his tunnels. He watched as she pushed away the curtain framing the entrance before stepping into the light. He merely arched a dark brow at her before he resumed pacing.

"Good morning to you as well," Antoinette snapped, to which Erik gave a grumble in response, before he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the ballet headmistress approach Jovan on the divan. Jovan was awkwardly trying to put aside the red fabric on her lap while attempting to stand up to greet Antoinette.

"Good morning, Madame Giry," Jovan greeted with a polite nod of her head, rising to her feet. One of the red curtains fell from the divan as she stood up.

"At least someone here still has their manners. Good morning, Na ― Jovan," Antoinette replied. Erik came to a stop in his pacing, his eyes drifting to the two females in curiosity.

"What brings you here, madame?" Jovan answered with a small smile.

"You, actually. Madame Strauss requested for your presence upstairs, she would like to speak to you."

Erik recognized the name as belonging to the costume mistress, a rather stern woman who was as strict as Antoinette was, but far more easy to aggravate. He quietly wished Jovan some much-needed luck as she gave Antoinette a word of thanks and a bow before proceeding to walk away from her spot. As she approached one of the passageways, Jovan glanced behind shoulder and found Erik's eyes, and she mouthed him a silent goodbye which he responded to with a nod of his head. A moment later, she was gone and out of sight.

He then turned to Antoinette whom he saw was staring at him with a curious look. "What?" he snapped.

"Oh, nothing." Erik narrowed his eyes at the ballet headmistress.

"You almost called her Nathalie," he remarked.

Antoinette blinked, surprise flickering in her eyes. "So she's told you who she truly is?"

"Yes. Nathalie Jovan Sauveterre."

"Hm, quite."

" _Quite?_ "

Erik watched as Antoinette picked up the fallen curtain and replaced it on the divan along with its the rest of its set. "What has she told you about herself?"

"Not much," he admitted, walking back to his organ as he began to pick up the discarded papers on the floor, the unfinished melody now firmly placed at the back of his mind now that a much more compelling topic was at hand ― Jovan. Now that the matter was being tread on, Erik refused to back away, still persistent as ever in his pursuit of answers. He knew that he had to play his cards carefully though, knowing that Antoinette herself was a good player when it came to keeping secrets, whether it was hers or other people's. He should know, after all. "Her father, who used to sing here; her mother, a writer; and her younger brother. Her uncle, of whom I learned of from... other sources."

"What other sources?" Antoinette prodded.

"Our patron, the Vicomte Collet," Erik answered as he placed the papers atop his organ, remembering the day that he had sent Jovan to deliver his letter to Monsieur Lefèvre that resulted in a rather intriguing encounter with the patron. When he turned, he saw that Antoinette was inspecting Jovan's work on the curtains.

"Tell me."

"It happened back when you were in Cherbourg. The Vicomte seemed to recognize Jovan, and 'mistook' her for the daughter of Raphael Sauveterre whose company he used to be in business with. He then mentioned that said company was now in the hands of Raphael's brother, Rémi."

"I see. Did Jovan stitch this? They're neat, even. Good." Antoinette ran a finger along the seam of the curtain in her hands. Erik vaguely recognized the attempt to steer the conversation into a different direction. He didn't budge.

"Antoinette, what kind of company does Rémi Sauveterre run?" Erik made a slight switch regarding the person in question, asking about Jovan's uncle instead of the girl herself. Hopefully, the answer he'd receive would help Erik determine from what class Jovan came from, even if he already had a good guess.

"Shipping," was Antoinette's clipped answer. "I know what you're onto, Erik. The only reason why I'm giving you answers is so you don't have to ask Jovan herself."

Erik raised a dark brow. "I gathered as much. Her uncle seems to be a sensitive topic for her."

Antoinette dropped a curtain on her lap and shot Erik an exasperated look. "And whose conversation did you eavesdrop on to gather _that?_ "

"Not yours or the manager's, worry not."

"Jovan herself then. I presume with her friend, Elea Neveu?"

Erik nodded, twisting the gold ring on his right little finger. "An astute deduction, brava," he deadpanned.

Antoinette pushed aside the curtains altogether before getting up to her feet. "Then I no longer see the need for this conversation, seeing as you're doing perfectly fine, spying on other people and whatnot." The mild irritation lacing her tone was picked up by Erik's ears, and he refrained from rolling his eyes as the ballet headmistress began to walk back to the passageway that she had come from.

"Can you really blame me, Antoinette?"

"This _isn't_ Persia, Erik," Antoinette stopped and made a sudden turn, and her scathing stare found him. Erik flinched, not because of the fire in her eyes, but because of the mention of the place where much of the blood from his past came from. He straightened and held Antoinette's stare as he took slow, fluid strides towards where she stood.

"You think I'm not aware of _that?_ " His voice dropped into a dangerous whisper.

"All I'm saying is that you don't have to be suspicious of everyone all the time," Antoinette answered firmly.

"I'm not suspicious," Erik hissed. No, he'd long stopped being suspicious of Jovan, specifically after his interrogation with her in the chapel. Was Antoinette really that daft?

Antoinette raised her chin as Erik inched closer to her. "Then why do you _care_ so much?"

At hearing his words, Erik stopped walking. There was something _wrong_. As he stiffened, his eyes spotted the dubious glint in Antoinette's eyes. An alarm went off in his head and his blood went cold. It took him a good second to realize that they weren't talking about Persia at all, but their conversation still very much revolved around Jovan. Jovan, the same girl around which majority of his thoughts ran around in circles nowadays. He wasn't quite sure when it started, but a voice whispered at the back of his head that it began over a month and a half ago, back when he had listened to Jovan's last conversation with Elea, those words that began haunting him ever since he heard them...

 _Don't stay here._

Erik cut his current stream of thought before his mind could further stray from the present, from what Antoinette just did. She _tricked_ him. He didn't know whether to be angry or impressed as he stared at the ballet headmistress before him, the woman still carrying an ever-present air of poise and authority even when standing face to face with the Opera Ghost.

"I don't," Erik lied, though he knew it was in vain.

"Heavens, Erik. You've never been _this_ curious about any of the opera staff before. I don't think I can even still call this curiosity at this point... You clearly care about _her_."

 _She started it_ , a part of Erik wanted to retort, but he ignored the childish remark, shaking his head. Instead, he turned and walked away from Antoinette, a frown pulling at his lips as he frantically attempted to sort out the thoughts running amok in his mind. Was this why he couldn't compose properly?

"Do not mistake my interest for something elsethat it is not, madame," he warned, the words almost escaping in a snarl. "You forget that curiosity is one of my gravest sins."

"Oh, please," he heard Antoinette scoff. "I just came from mass, Erik, and already you make me want me go against the priest's sermon."

"Save your breath, Antoinette. I'll be glad to let you know of the next time I believe I'm due for a tongue-lashing," he answered sarcastically.

He didn't hear another word from Antoinette after his response, just the click of her boots against the floor of his cavern before they faded away as she presumably left for good. The silence that followed was not a welcome respite as it only served to heighten the voices in his head, a vicious choir that sang of his sorrows, his nightmares, and his fears, and he could not silence them no matter how hard he tried.

As Erik closed his eyes, he reached to touch the cool porcelain of the mask that sat on his face, a sigh escaping his lips as his thoughts flew to his music. His music... he made music for a million reasons, but one of them was to quiet the demons he had, if he could not tame them. And among them were his fears, the ones that always made sleep elusive, the ones that haunted his dreams when Morpheus did visit him, the ones that made his chest ache whenever he thought of them...

 _Don't stay here._

Antoinette was right, Erik thought in defeat as he recalled Elea's words once more, an eerie melody that tirelessly repeated itself in his head at the moment. After all this time, it just seemed so right to begin seeing Jovan as a constant in his life, even if he had so little of those. It had been so long since he last considered the possibility of Jovan leaving the opera house. When Elea had left, reality delivered him with a heavy blow as he came to realize that Jovan staying forever was _not_ an option.

One day, she was going to leave, much like her friend did.

And Erik feared when that day would arrive.

* * *

It was that day of the week again, the day when Christine went out to the chapel to say her prayers for an hour. It was nearing eight in the evening when Jovan's eyes left her book and darted to the clock on the far wall of the dormitory. Now that Elea was gone, it fell on Jovan to be the responsible one among her roommates, something that everyone had also been in favor of because she was now the oldest among them. As the long hand of the clock neared the twelfth hour, Jovan closed her book and climbed out of her bed to approach the door.

"She can take of herself, don't worry," Suzanne gently chastised Jovan from behind the drawn curtains of her bed.

"I don't doubt that," Jovan answered distractedly as she opened the door and peered into the dark hallway outside.

In the distance, she saw Christine approaching with a lamp in one hand. Jovan offered her a small smile once the younger girl was close enough to see her.

"I'm not late," Christine pointed out playfully.

"No, you aren't," Jovan agreed with a chuckle as she let Christine into the room, firmly locking the door in place before going to return to her own bed.

When Jovan turned, however, she was surprised to see Christine still standing before her. The girl's brown eyes were on Jovan's left hand where one of her fingers were bandaged, a splotch of red on the white cloth. "You cut yourself?" Christine asked.

Jovan gave a nod. "Yes, earlier. You know when." She then recalled the incident earlier that day when she had been cutting some fabric, and there had been a loud commotion outside of the costume workshop. The screams of the chorus girls outside had startled Jovan so bad that she ended up cutting herself with the scissors in her other hand. Fortunately, she was quick to catch the blood before it could stain the cloth she was working on, something that would've surely earned her a scolding from Madame Strauss.

Christine gave a thoughtful nod before she walked away to her own bed. Jovan did the same, killing the flame of the lamp on her nightstand before drawing the curtains of her own bed. The earlier mishap continued to replay in her mind as Jovan remembered wandering out of the costume workshop to find out what was going on that it was causing such a racket. A cleaning lady had stumbled across Jovan then, and proceeded to tell her that the Opera Ghost was the one behind the ruckus once more.

At this, Jovan's thoughts wandered to Erik as she pulled up the covers to her chest. It had been two weeks since her last visit to him, when she had mended his curtains, and since that morning, she had yet to drop by his home again. Not that she needed an invitation first before she could visit the cellars ― in fact, a good number of her visits had actually been of her own decision without any prompting from Erik ― but her encounter with him following that Sunday morning had simply been a rather discouraging one.

By now, Jovan had grown used to Erik's mood swings and how volatile the man could be at times, but a visit to Box Five two days after Sunday had been one that had put her off. She'd been right when she guessed that Erik was inside, presumably to oversee their current production, but she had not anticipated his bitter demeanor towards her. With Erik, Jovan had learned to recognize when he was actually angry at her or when he was angry at something else entirely and she was just in the line of fire (the most recent instance had to be the one when he'd kicked the ottoman she was using for her feet). When she'd peeked into Box Five to see how he was doing, she didn't miss the edge in his voice when he spoke nor the way his eyes darkened when he looked at her.

"I'm fine," he had bit out that morning. "I don't see why you should care."

Jovan's first reaction was to throw back an equally biting remark then. She'd only thought better of it as she remembered that her new boss was not as lenient as Amir Vacher had been when she was still a stagehand. Instead, she'd decided to let Erik be before she closed the door to his box. For the remainder of that day, she tried her best to not let her mind drift to Erik's new attitude towards her; fortunately, having to concentrate on the costumes was a sound and welcome distraction for Jovan.

Then the days continued to pass where Erik remained cold towards her. Jovan had let it slide at first, convinced that perhaps he was in another sulking mood. But then a week turned into two and then three, and she realized that Erik might actually be angry at her.

She couldn't even begin to fathom what she had done to earn his scorn. She hadn't said anything out of line the last time she spoke with him, nor were there any quarrels between them in the past few months. She didn't think he'd have any reason to be displeased with her work on his curtains (besides, she didn't think that Erik was that shallow to be so angry at a mere set of curtains). But not only was Jovan confused, she was also angry. Angry that Erik was acting in a way for reasons that she could not comprehend, angry that she was also keeping her distance from him now because of her damn pride, angry because she just could _not_ understand...

Jovan was tired. She was utterly, terribly tired of this. First, Elea had left. Now, Erik was acting differently.

She didn't know what to do anymore, and she was already at the end of her rope.

* * *

She held onto her skirt as she marched purposefully down the dark passageway that led to Erik's home.

Jovan had had enough of it.

Her footsteps were loud on purpose as she made her way through the tunnel, hoping that her footfalls would be enough to alert Erik that she was coming. That, and to let him know that she was _done_. It was Sunday again, and Jovan just couldn't take any more of his cold behavior without knowing the justifiable reason behind it.

Red clouded her vision as she swatted away the curtains that framed the mouth of the passageway. She saw Erik sitting on his desk, his fingers dirtied with charcoal, with a startled look dawning on his face when his green and amber eyes met hers.

"What the Devil, Erik? Do you mind telling me what's going on?" Jovan spat at him as she came to stop outside of the tunnel, breathing heavily.

"What?" Erik replied lamely, standing from his desk as he began to approach her with a questioning look in his eyes. With his waistcoat unbuttoned and a small smudge of charcoal on the unmasked side of his face, Jovan began to see that there was something wrong with the picture. He rarely looked this disheveled, seeing that he took much care with how he looked and that he was a vain creature. So there was something wrong, indeed. Jovan pushed down her worry as she realized that he looked _tired_ while he came closer and closer to her in a slow but even pace.

"This ― whatever the _hell_ is going on!" Jovan couldn't help but raise her voice, her veins alight with fire as she stared hard at Erik. "Did I do something wrong? Did I say something? _What did I do?_ "

"No. Nothing," Erik replied, his voice low and steady as he held his ground against her. He now stood a few feet away from her, his hands balled into fists at his side. If he was angry now, he was doing an excellent job at controlling his temper.

At hearing his answer, Jovan's ire only grew, her clenched fists shaking as her nails bit into the skin of her palm. "Nothing? For four weeks, you act so coldly towards me, and it's just _nothing?_ What is wrong with you?"

"Do you want me to answer chronologically, or alphabetically?" he answered, sounding serious.

Jovan's mouth fell open. "I'm not joking, Erik!" She gritted her teeth. "You _will_ tell me whatever it was that I did wrong or, God forbid ― Erik, I am so _tired_ ―"

"Like I said, _nothing_." His frustratingly placid tone made Jovan release a soft snarl, even if she heard the faintest tremble of emotion in Erik's voice. "It has nothing to do to you."

"You _lie_." Jovan was unable to stop herself as she closed the space between them and she weakly shoved him, but Erik didn't budge. She tried again, with a stronger push this time, but he only swayed as he stared down at her. He was frozen like a statue, and it made Jovan's temper flare once more as she tried to get a reaction from out of him.

"Damn it, Erik! I'm not stupid," she seethed as she backed away this time, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She had so much to say and so much to ask, but even with her flair with words, she could not articulate any of her thoughts into coherent sentences, nor did she think that she could say any of them without bursting into tears. She just wanted so badly to _know_. Had Madame Giry told him something when she'd left the two of them alone that Sunday? Was it because he was fed up with her refusal to fully disclose her past? Or, God forbid, had he grown bored with her?

Jovan drew in a deep breathe to steady herself before she parted her lips to speak, but not a word escaped her. Erik remained motionless before her, his face eerily indecipherable, and Jovan broke into a bitter, humorless laugh before she took another step back.

"Fine," she bit out, her voice trembling as she spoke. Her exhaustion was finally catching up to her, not just from lashing out from Erik, but the burnout she felt at the present was the result of everything else. From the soreness she still felt after Elea's departure, from having to adjust to the demands and intricacies of her new job, from whatever this was between her and Erik...

"Are you going to leave?" Erik's voice then broke the silence. Jovan watched as he approached her until they were only a foot apart. His voice was quiet, but his words felt heavy as they drifted to her ears in a somber tone.

She then realized that she now stood not far from the passageway she had just come from. _Leave?_ Her ire rose once more as recalled the last time that she had left during an argument between the two of them ― when he had forced her to admit the reason why she was hiding. It didn't end well for either of them as they ended up not speaking to each other for a full month, all because Erik had demanded an explanation from her while she had stormed out on him like a child.

She wasn't that child anymore.

Her brows creased as she gave a furious shake of her head. "No. I won't," she answered. It escaped her notice that she had raised her clenched fists again, as if she were prepared to push Erik again if he came any closer.

Jovan's lips parted in surprise when she felt long, slender fingers gently wrap around her wrists, the contact causing her to uncurl her fists in surprise. They belonged to Erik, she realized, as she stared at the skin of his fingers that were streaked with charcoal. Rarely did he touch her without his gloves that the feeling of his skin against that of her wrists made her pulse escalate further, but something about his warm touch also oddly soothed her. Before she could stop herself, Jovan leaned forward and her forehead fell on his chest. She heard a small gasp left him as he let go of her wrists, and her hands found the fabric of his shirt which she gathered into her fists.

She was so _tired_ , she wanted to tell Erik. But she let her own silence do the talking as she took in deep breaths to calm her racing heart. It roared so loudly that her chest began to ache, and the pain felt bone-deep as she felt a numbness wash over her. Then she felt Erik's arms slowly wrap around her, and Jovan only held onto him tighter, determined not to let go after the distance that had grown between them over the past few weeks. She didn't think she could handle _that_ anymore, not when Elea's departure was a still fresh wound that she was trying so hard to heal, and she didn't think she could handle losing him too...

But she still couldn't understand why he had acted the way he did.

Was it her fault? What had she done?

"I'm sorry," she then heard Erik say, his voice so solemn that it made tears spring to her eyes. "It had nothing to do with you."

Jovan would get her answers one day. But for now, his reassurance would do. That, and the way he was holding her in his arms.

* * *

Author's Note: Someone please tell Erik that pushing away someone so that he'll grow to care less for them isn't gonna help his case. Boy, these two have a lot to work out. Don't forget to review!


	27. Stranger Than Fiction

Author's Note: Reading all of your reviews, no matter how long or short, continues to inspire me for every day that I sit before my laptop to think and write. I am immensely grateful for all the wonderful things you guys have to say about my work! Also, a word of advice, enjoy these last few chapters before the plot thickens and shit hits the fan. This may also be the last weekly update that I'll be giving out. My classes are about to start in a few weeks (I'm entering twelfth grade!) which is... bad news, to be honest, where it concerns my writing. I have to begin spacing out updates by more than a week, maybe two weeks. Lastly, please take a moment to drop a review when you reach the end of this one!

MarieUni: No need to apologize! I actually have tons of fun whenever I get to read my readers' expectations! *wink*

crimsonbloodwitch: I wanna buy you a megaphone just so you can preach those words while standing on the shore of Erik's home.

* * *

( _twenty-seven_ )

 **STRANGER THAN FICTION**

* * *

"Mademoiselles, if you would please," Monsieur Reyer prompted the seamstresses, not unkindly, for them to finish their fussing with the prima donna, Sandrine Blanc, as she stood to the side of the stage in her costume. A few days away from another premiere, the staff of the Opéra Populaire were conducting a dress rehearsal that afternoon, and some adjustments were being made to the lead soprano's dress as she rehearsed her choreography to test whether her costume would give her the space she needed to move around the stage untroubled.

Jovan rose from behind Sandrine, having just finished examining the trail of the dress, before she returned backstage along with the other seamstresses so the routine could continue. As the first bars of the opera's second act began to play, Jovan found herself watching the prima donna in silent awe as Sandrine glided gracefully across the stage to the lead tenor on the other side. To see such finesse and gravity coming from the performers had always amazed Jovan, even after having seen so many taxing rehearsals where the singers and dancers had yet to perfect their acts.

"I must say, it is a pleasure to see you doing well with your new job."

The voice that reached Jovan's ears was masculine and had an air of playfulness to it. She looked over her shoulder to see Monsieur Lefèvre behind her, a small smile playing on his lips as he gave her a courteous nod.

"Monsieur le Manager," Jovan greeted him with a nod and a smile of her own. "I can only hope that the quality of my service is still up to your standards."

"It always has been and still is," Monsieur Lefèvre assured Jovan with a chuckle as he inched closer to her. "May I add that it brings me more ease than it did back when you were still working as a stagehand? At least your feet are now always planted on firm ground, and the company you now have is much more pleasant than that that the stagehands can offer to a person such as you."

Jovan gave a nod, her gaze drifting to the stage where the lead tenor began to sing. When a note escaped the male singer, one that sounded too sharp even for Jovan's ears, she tried not to wince. "It's not so bad, I see now," she replied to Monsieur Lefèvre, turning back to him. "Although I still refuse to help in the dressing rooms, and I leave all the talking to Jeanne and Briella," said Jovan, referencing the other two seamstresses that she worked with; it was with them that Jovan left the responsibility of talking to other people, be it ordering fabrics or the materials needed for the costumes or anything of the like. Even after the change of occupation, Jovan remained wary as ever with the people that she made contact with, careful to still keep herself hidden from any suspicious eyes.

"I understand, of course," Monsieur Lefèvre replied with a nod of his head. "I rather think tha―"

The manager was never able to finish his words when he was cut off by an anguished scream coming from the stage. Startled, Jovan's eyes darted to the source of the sound, and she saw that the lead tenor was down on the floor of the stage while a mass of red fabric sat atop him. She recognized the cloth to be one of the curtains that framed the sides of the stage. It had not-so-mysteriously fallen upon the unfortunate actor while he was singing, and he was now flailing beneath the thick and heavy fabric of the curtain while the people closest to him proceeded to help him out of his predicament.

"For the love of God!" The lead tenor looked like he was on the verge of tears when a stagehand tried to pull away the curtain, but only ended up burying the singer further beneath the mass of fabric.

Jovan caught the disapproving glance from Monsieur Reyer while the laughter coming from the dancers to the side echoed throughout the auditorium. It didn't take much effort to deduce who was behind the mishap ― recalling the singing that the lead tenor had just done, it was obvious that his performance was not up to the standards of the opera's resident ghost.

As the lead tenor stumbled out from under the curtains, Jovan found herself laughing along with her fellow staff. When she saw Monsieur Lefèvre out of the corner of her eye, she was more than stunned that the manager himself was smiling at the incident.

"Why, Monsieur le Manager," Jovan was unable to help herself as she turned to the man. "And, out of everyone, I thought that you would be the one who'd disapprove the most of our Opera Ghost's antics."

Monsieur Lefèvre gave her an amused smile. "No, mademoiselle, that would be Monsieur Reyer. After all, we all need a good laugh every now and then."

Jovan's lips parted in surprise; not once did she have the chance to speak to the manager about the Opera Ghost that now that the topic was being brought up, she couldn't help but be curious of Monsieur Lefèvre's thoughts about their Phantom.

"Aren't you bothered, monsieur, that you have a ghost practically running your own theater?" Jovan asked, keeping her tone light.

"Not a ghost, Miss Rousseau. Not a ghost," Monsieur Lefèvre replied. "But, of course, it bothered me at first. Yes, especially when I first came here four years ago. The gall of this scoundrel, I had thought at first, to make demands of me and to give criticisms where it was unasked for."

"Pardon me, monsieur, but you think that he's not a ghost?" Jovan played along but genuine curiosity laced her tone. Rarely did she come across someone in the opera house who shared her initial opinion that the Phantom was not a mere specter; seeing Monsieur Lefèvre think so was something that truly stunned her. But Erik did remark before that he had made sure that their manager was not a simpleton.

"Of course not, mademoiselle." He sent her a puzzled look. "I know it is the belief of many that he is a mere gho―... You don't share their opinion, do you?"

"N-no," Jovan said with a shake of her head. She never had, even when she first arrived at the opera house.

"Oh, good. It's nice to know that not everyone here is as gullible. Still, it's best that it remain the view of everyone else that our Phantom is nothing than what he claims to be."

"Why so, monsieur?"

Monsieur Lefèvre's eyes gleamed. "May I tell you a secret, Miss Rousseau?"

The manager's request made Jovan flinch with surprise, but she nodded her head. "Of course. I mean, if I can trust you with one of my own, you can trust me as well."

A thin-lipped smile crossed his face as his voice dropped to a whisper. "Would it surprise you to know that I've spoken to him before?"

This time, Jovan's flinch was mere acting done on her part. "He has?" she breathed, feigning shock as her eyes widened.

Monsieur Lefèvre nodded. "You'll find that our ghost will actually talk to people as long as they are willing to listen." Jovan couldn't agree more ― after all, hadn't Erik only proceeded to exchange banter with her when they first met because she refused to run away?

"When... when was this?"

"Early after I took over the position of manager. I was in my office one evening ― I had stayed late to tend to some letters ― when a voice began to talk to me. There was no one else in the room, so I assumed it had to be the Opera Ghost. Of course, my first instinct had been to run ― I mean, after all the ghastly rumors I've heard about the Phantom, it was the most sensible thing to do ― but I realized how futile that would be. The Opera Ghost simply wants to chat, why not listen?"

Jovan bit her lip to keep down a chuckle that was threatening to escape her mouth. Though Erik was very much an eccentric, she did notice his penchant for little chats ― it all depended on his mood. "And what did he want to speak to you about?" she prodded.

"He wanted for us to come to an agreement. See, the manager before me had not been as... accommodating, and the Phantom didn't want a repeat of that. So I listened. I sat in my office and simply listened. And all that time, I couldn't help but notice how... articulate the fellow was. It was there that I realized that this Opera Ghost could not be a ghost. He was a man."

Monsieur Lefèvre cleared his throat as he placed his hands behind his back. "Fortunately, we did come to an agreement that night. He learned of how highly I regarded the arts with respect; he learned that I was not as pigheaded and gullible as the last manager. I allow him to run my theater, Miss Rousseau, because I know that he knows what he's doing. The man is quite clearly a genius in the arts, if not in any other field. I even admire him for it ― why, it's only with his criticisms that we manage to bring in so much money because he's so keen with perfecting our operas. But he still does unnerve me so, at times."

"I can't imagine anyone who wouldn't be. He's... intense." Jovan fished for the right word, and found that the adjective perfectly described Erik.

The manager chuckled. "I'd say you were speaking from experience." Jovan's heart skipped a beat. "But, then again, you did work in the rafters for a while, and that's a place that the Opera Ghost loves to haunt."

Jovan couldn't help the laughter that rolled off her tongue. Relief shot through her veins. "Yes, yes."

"Oh, well." Monsieur Lefèvre shook his head. "Now, if I could only stop him from extorting money from our funds."

That only intensified the laughter bubbling in Jovan's chest.

* * *

It was during the afternoon of another Sunday when Jovan made the decision to visit Erik.

A few months had passed since their last feud, and things between them had rather returned to normal. Well, if one didn't consider the longer intervals that now sat between the time Jovan and Erik spent with each other, something that Jovan could thank her new job for. While working as a stagehand had been far more laborious, her new job as a seamstress was proving to be the time-consuming kind. While accuracy and attention were both requirements of the two jobs, working in the costume department also required perfection, from the last detail of embroidery on the costumes to how the fabric should sit still and snug against the performers' bodies. Fortunately, perfection was something Jovan was willing to strive for when it came to her work ― it was the least she could contribute to the opera house that she had long come to call her home, and it was not like she had a choice as well, seeing as Madame Strauss was every bit the perfectionist that the Opera Ghost was. So it was perfection that she worked long and hard for, even if her patience did not sometimes cooperate with her and even if it meant sacrificing some of her time with Erik to do her job as a seamstress.

On this Sunday though, she was taking a break from the costumes to lend some of her time to her friend. Not only that, but God knew how badly she needed the respite after working nonstop for two weeks. It was also during those two weeks that her job succeeded in keeping her apart from Erik, something that the man was rather unashamed in complaining about when he had used his ventriloquism during one afternoon in the costume workshop. While Jovan had been sewing, he had thrown his voice only for her to hear, his protests and dry comments reaching her ears but leaving her unable to reply unless she wanted the other seamstresses to deem her mad when they saw her talking to the empty air around her. Sure, they both had gone longer than two weeks without seeing each other, but that had been a long time ago and they had grown much closer since then.

When Jovan stepped into the cavern of Erik's home, the scent of candle wax almost instantly assaulting her sense of smell, her eyes immediately flew to his slim form seated before his organ. He was bent over the keys of the large instrument, but he wasn't playing, no. The silence resounding in the space told another story, and Jovan could only conclude that he was writing down notes or lyrics.

"How is it that you're always composing?" Jovan called out, a smile playing across her lips as she made her way to Erik.

"Hm?" he answered distractedly, not even gracing her with a glance behind his shoulder as he continued to write. Typical, Jovan thought with a shake of her head as she approached, and she began to see the movement and the flicks of Erik's wrist as he wrote away on a piece of parchment.

"I'm envious is all," Jovan replied honestly as she finally reached the behind of Erik's bench. When she tried to peek over his shoulder to see what he was working on, Erik moved in accordance, his shoulder moving in front of Jovan's line of sight to obscure whatever it was he was working on.

"It's not ready," he tutted as he finally glanced to look at her, a knowing but mischievous look flashing in his chimeric eyes. Jovan merely gave an innocent shrug in response and straightened, biting her lip to keep a smirk from curving them. "And why would you be envious?" Erik prodded.

"It's just ― how are you always creating something new? Who is your muse? Where do you get inspiration?" Jovan ended up whining as she eyed the papers on Erik's organ, his handwriting unmistakable on the parchment with its neat, elegant loops.

Erik gave a chuckle as he moved to gather a few of his scattered papers into a pile that he then turned over so Jovan could no longer see them. "I live in an opera house, Jovan. Paris' most prestigious one. I am surrounded by music almost everyday. Where do I indeed get inspiration, I wonder," came his sardonic answer.

"Music for music, of course," Jovan retorted with a roll of her eyes. "Unfortunately, I don't compose."

"Are you looking for answers from me?" Erik asked, shaking his head. "You really need to get out more if it's inspiration you're looking for."

A grin tugged on one corner of Jovan's lips. "Why, are you saying that you cannot be inspiring enough?" she chided him playfully.

"Ah, yes. With this devilish visage of mine, I would no doubt make for an invigorating muse." Jovan sensed a faint note of resentment in his tone but she ignored it; now was not the time for self-loathing, she wanted to tell Erik, not when she was doing her best to lighten the mood for both her own sake and that of Erik's. Besides, she doubted she could write anything good if she got inspired now by Erik's hatred for his appearance.

"If memory serves me right, I remember a certain someone telling me that they were both the Devil and the Emperor," Jovan remarked then watched as Erik slowly turned to her, the tip of his pen barely touching the parchment that he had abandoned for the moment in favor of her. She felt a wave of satisfaction roll through her now that she had fully claimed his attention.

"What are you on about?" Erik asked, though Jovan doubted that he had truly forgotten of _that_ afternoon, the one where he had used the chapel as a place to preach about passion, but not before saying that he was both the Devil and the Emperor when Jovan had asked him what else he was. At the time, the remark had been so unexpected that it had completely thrown Jovan off guard, and her mind proceeded to forget all about it the next moment. But once she finally had time to herself again, time that she used to mull over Erik's cryptic words, she recalled the entirety of Erik's unfinished tale about the tragic love triangle that was the Star, the Devil, and the Emperor, and she remembered that the Star had used both the Devil and the Emperor as her muses.

Erik had wanted her to write about him, she came to the conclusion. And though that had been over two years ago, she had yet to forget Erik's intentions for her that afternoon in the chapel.

Jovan had to admit to herself though that writing about Erik was an extremely daunting task. For a man as gifted, complex, and enigmatic as he was, she couldn't even imagine how she could begin to do him justice with mere written words. At one point, she had even come to the verdict that he was just one of those people that couldn't be confined by words, no matter how poetic they could be.

"Indeed, what am I on about?" Jovan echoed his words as he continued to stare at her with a glimmer of confusion and curiosity in his eyes. "Admit it, Erik. Wouldn't it be such a wonderful thing to have someone write about you?"

Recognition flashed across his expression for the briefest of seconds but Jovan had caught it. "Depends on what they're writing about," Erik sneered as he resumed writing. "I should know ― some tabloids just love to expatiate on the gossip surrounding Opéra Populaire's infamous Phantom."

"But I don't want to write about the Opera Ghost," Jovan answered. "I want to write about Erik."

Erik's hand froze mid-stroke, and Jovan found herself holding her breath. When his eyes locked with hers once more, there was a familiar intensity burning in them, a sight that made a pleasant shiver crawl beneath her skin.

"Why would you even want to write about me?" he replied, his voice low and steady but free of any trace of bitterness.

 _Why not?_ Jovan wanted to answer. But instead, she situated herself right behind Erik's back and slowly, gently placed her fingers upon his back.

To his credit, Erik didn't react to her touch. When he had flinched the first time she touched his back, Jovan had chucked it to Erik being unused to touch, something that was extremely likely considering his isolation. But then he had told her a part of his past, of his time as the Devil's Child, and Jovan knew that it was not a stretch to think that he had also suffered a fair amount under the gypsies that had cruelly locked him up inside a cage.

Jovan realized that she was right as she began to trace his back with a feather-light touch. She felt the unmistakable ridges of scarred tissue, almost imperceptible if the skin wasn't raised. Erik wasn't wearing his waistcoat at the moment, donning a mere dress shirt that wrapped tightly against his lean form. Her lips parted in surprise as her fingers began to follow a scar, the length of the mark making it not hard to infer that the wound had come from the vicious bite of a whip.

In front of her, she could feel Erik holding his breath, the lean muscles of his back tightly coiled beneath her gentle touch.

"I think," Jovan began as the words began to tear around in her mind, "that you might have been an angel."

"...An angel?" Erik replied after a beat, an amused twinkle in his eyes that Jovan took as a sign to continue.

"Yes. You were one of heaven's most beautiful creatures, but also one of their most daring." While Jovan's mouth began to run, her mind was weaving a new story out of the old ones that she'd had the pleasure of hearing before. One of them was a lesser known tale of origin regarding the Opera Ghost, a story that she had heard from an older chorus girl during her first few weeks at the opera house. It was one of the stories that had not circulated much among the opera staff due to its far-fetched premise that the Opera Ghost was actually a scorned creature of God, a fallen angel in the same vein as Lucifer.

Jovan considered that particular story while she injected a few facets from the life of one of Greek mythology's many tragedies, a figure that was every bit the trickster that Erik was himself ― Prometheus. "See, when the time came after mankind was born and every angel was asked to bestow a gift upon God's newest creation, the other angels gave the gifts of beauty, protection, festivity, knowledge, and such. You, however, gave them something that made all of those worth living for."

"What?" Erik asked quietly, his eyes staring at her in anticipation.

"Passion." Her fingers continued to brush across his back, but she had long wandered away from his scars and was now drawing a line down the unmarred surface of his skin. Jovan felt as if she were mapping new terrain, venturing into new territory, and excitement curled in her stomach as she continued to explore the expanse of Erik's back. She noticed just how warm his flesh was and how he had slowly began to relax under her touch. "See, gifting passion to the naive race of man was something akin to lighting a fire. With passion, beauty was no longer merely appreciated, but it also became something to desire. Passion was what drove mothers to protect their children, what drove lovers to keep each other out of harm's way. Passion gave life to the celebrations that were held, vigor and vitality to the dancing, the singing, the praying. Men of science and culture were driven to preach and discourse about the knowledge they had because of the passion they possessed.

"Your gift to mankind was a beautiful one, but it was also a double-edged sword that not only inspired love and zeal, but also hatred and mania. Why else did the Trojan War begin if not for the beautiful Helen? Why do lovers kill paramours if not out of jealousy? Why does man wage war if not to fight for what he believes in?"

Jovan's heart began to hammer in her chest, not for the story that she was telling, but for the spark that she saw in Erik's green and amber eyes as he gazed at her. She could see that he was completely entranced by her words, an unparalleled delight for her ― who else could boast of having the Phantom's undivided attention for such a period of time? It drove her harder to complete her story, if only to keep Erik looking at her the way he was doing at the present, with such vehemence that made her feel as if she were the only person who ever mattered in the world.

"It was for causing such discord among the once-peaceful race of man that you were thrown out of the heavens. Of course, they had to cut off your wings first to make sure that you would no longer be recognized as one of God's holy creatures, and they were not gentle when they did so," Jovan continued to narrate as her finger found its way back to one of his scars, one that ran quite far down his back. "Hence, these scars that you now carry on your back, a reminder of what you once used to be."

"If only reality were as beautiful as fiction. But it seems that even in fantasy, I always have to be dealt the terrible card, don't I?" There was nothing spiteful in Erik's tone, but there was a trace of sadness when he spoke.

"Atlas wasn't given the world to carry if his shoulders couldn't bear the weight," Jovan replied.

"And is that how you intend to immortalize me? Alongside your gods and Titans as a fallen angel who gifted passion to mankind?" Erik's tone grew mocking, and Jovan would have been offended if she didn't remember that Erik was not a man of fanciful flights, preferring to ground his feet firmly in reality.

A shrug left her shoulders. "Well, that's the version that I'm sticking to until I learn your actual past." She felt Erik grow tense under her touch again and she realized what her words suggested. However, Jovan didn't want to draw Erik's past out of his own mouth by force ― she would let him tell it only when he was ready to do so. She then decided that a change of topic was in order, if only to get rid of the apprehension that now strained the air around them. "And now that I've told you a story, I do believe that it's time for you to finish yours. And preferably not in a dark chapel, thank you very much."

"Two years, Jovan. Two years and you still can't let go of that story?" Erik answered, shaking his head as he returned to his papers, and Jovan had to restrain herself from taking a hold of his chin just so he wouldn't turn away from her yet. Blinking, Jovan pushed away the irrational urge, confused as to where the impulse had even come from.

"I simply think that there's something unfathomably tragic about stories that are never finished," Jovan said as her fingers finally left Erik's back.

* * *

The second her hands left him, Erik immediately found himself missing the contact. The warmth of her fingers penetrating the fabric of his shirt and eliciting a sense of calm quieted the turmoil in his head. But the smell of ink and parchment before him drove away the absurd longing, and Erik's attention returned to the opera that he was writing.

"Well, unfortunately, not all stories have a proper ending. That's a fact, and one you're better off accepting," he remarked firmly.

"Oh, please. Just admit that you don't know how to end your story," Jovan insisted.

"Fine. I concede," Erik retorted peevishly as he glanced to glare at Jovan for a split second before returning to his piece. "I'll even admit that I made up the story on the spot."

"I would have applauded you if only you had an ending for it," Jovan snickered.

Dropping his pen (he seriously wasn't going to get anything done with Jovan there but he didn't have the heart to shoo her away either, not after having been apart from her for two weeks), Erik turned until he ended up straddling the bench he was sitting on. "If you're so adamant about hearing an ending to the story, why don't _you_ make one for it?" To drive his point home, Erik even grabbed a blank piece of parchment from his organ and offered it to Jovan.

But Jovan appeared to ignore his words as she said, "What about your characters? Were they also made up on the spot? Is that why they don't have names?"

"No. I took their names from a suit in the tarot deck, the Major Arcana." Erik recalled his time back at the gypsy camp, where he had refused to let his days and nights there go to waste as he had to suffer behind the bars of his cage. There had been a woman there, with tanned skin and kind grey eyes, who had taught him a few of the tricks that he now always carried under his sleeve. She used to sneak into the tent where Erik had been kept, under the veil of the night to teach and tell him a few of their ways. Among them had been a lesson about the tarot cards and how to use them for divination. While Erik's interest in fortune telling was never kindled, the meaning of the cards did stay with him.

Jovan carefully took the paper from Erik before she began to fiddle with its edges. Her eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Then I reckon that there's a meaning behind those? The Star, the Devil, and the Emperor?"

"Indeed. The Star represents hope and inspiration, but she is also unreachable ― hence why neither of her lovers truly succeed in winning her heart. The Emperor is, well, a ruler. He rules with absolute power and authority. And while he is generous, he is also rigid and can be excessively controlling. Lastly, the Devil stands for temptation, along with our primal desire for earthly pleasures. However, the Devil also represents living in fear and bondage."

"...It all makes more sense now," Jovan whispered, and Erik guessed that she was talking about his unfinished story. "Impressive." He spotted her eyes glowing with fascination, and Erik was a child again, his own green and amber eyes alight with the same wonder when he had first learned about the cards.

"I thought so too," Erik replied.

Jovan then took her place on the bench, her back to the organ while Erik still sat astride the bench. "What about the Hanged Man? I've always wondered because ― well, you know why."

"It's the title of your mother's novel, yes." A small smile crossed Erik's lips. "The Hanged Man stands for sacrifice, sometimes at a personal cost. Martyrdom, letting go, crossroads. But all these also come with the benefit of enlightenment."

"I did tell you the premise of my mother's book, didn't I?" Jovan's eyes crinkled with amusement.

"You did. The son of an aristocrat falls in love with a courtesan. A fitting title."

Jovan bit her lower lip, appearing to be in thought for a brief moment, and Erik found his gaze drawn to the flesh tucked between her teeth. "If there's a Star, then there must be a Sun and Moon too, right?" she mused out loud.

Erik gave a nod. "What the Sun stands for is quite obvious, to be honest. Warmth, triumph, and joy. Meanwhile, the Moon embodies illusions, fears, and fantasies."

Jovan placed the paper she held on top of the organ. "Is there a chance that there's a card called the Phantom?"

"No."

"Pity. I wouldn't have been surprised if you took your sobriquet from a deck of fortune-telling cards."

"You really need to get out more," Erik scoffed before crossing his one leg over the bench and standing up. "I do hope that I've inspired you enough now to write something," he taunted as he began to walk away.

"Yes, I do. I think I might even have an idea for a book ― you."

Time froze along with the breath and blood in Erik's body. He turned back to Jovan only to see her still perched on his bench, her features painted into an inscrutable mask. He couldn't tell whether she was serious or not, even with her brilliant green eyes staring back at him, an unreadable glint in them. Erik had no doubts about Jovan's ability with words, but the thought of _her_ writing about him...

"You jest," he answered, arching a brow at her.

"Do I look like?" she countered, standing from the bench as she approached him. Her lips tugged into a mischievous grin, and all Erik could think of then was how that kind of smile suited her.

Erik shrugged. "Who knows what goes on inside that pretty head of yours?" The swishing of her skirt against the floor of his cavern reached his ears, and Erik couldn't help but appreciate the fact that Jovan had long discontinued her use of trousers as she began using skirts ever since she moved to the costume department.

"It's best if you don't find out," Jovan answered as she stopped two feet away from him.

"Why? Are you afraid I won't like what I find?"

"I'm afraid you might like what you find."

Erik blinked. His heart skipped a beat. Jovan then gave a dramatic curtsy before making her way around him and towards a divan.


	28. Icarus And The Sun

Author's Note: So I got this out earlier than expected because I managed to write several chapters in advance. You can see that I'm getting ready for when the time comes that I'll no longer have time to write because of school. I may have taken a few creative liberties with a part in this chapter ― you'll know what I'm talking about when you see it, but it was all done to suit this story. Also, I'm feeling a bit excited because I've begun writing a new story! And, yes, it's for PotO.

MarieUni: Oh my, the thing with the Arcana and tarot cards is such a great coincidence! And yes, we need all the luck we can get, so good luck with this semester to you as well!

Playlist:  
04\. Burning Bridges by Bea Miller  
05\. So Close by Jon McLaughlin

* * *

( _twenty-eight_ )

 **ICARUS AND THE SUN**

* * *

Another New Year, another Bal Masqué.

The longer Jovan stayed at the Opéra Populaire, the more the annual celebration became a nuisance to her and less of a of a joyous occasion. Though Jovan had held a certain degree of curiosity regarding the ball, it had never been enough to drive her to actually want to be invited. After all, she'd seen her fair share of parties and balls prior to living at the opera house, and had even witnessed her own parents attend the Masquerade themselves twice before Mila had died. To say the least, Jovan was far from enchanted when it came to the Masquerade, and more of that little charm only wore off when she had learned how much work it took to prepare for that night before New Year.

"I don't see what's so damn exciting about the Masquerade," Jovan sighed in exasperation as Tess pulled her away down the upper ring of one of the opera house's ballrooms. "Don't people get tired of it?"

"It's tradition! And an exciting one at that," Tess argued as she finally let go of Jovan's when they came across a small group of ballerinas. The girls were huddled in a shadowy part of the corridor, in front of the balustrade so they could overlook the masked sea of people below.

"It's repetitive," Jovan snapped as her eyes ran over Christine and Meg among the group, the girls chattering excitedly while Meg pointed at someone or something down them. Jovan tried not to roll her eyes ― the only aspect of the Masquerade that she could care enough to grace with an appreciative thought with had to be the consistently inventive costumes that the guests wore, but that was about it. Jovan saw little else to fuss about, hence why she could hardly stand the sight of the girls before her now who were gawking at the colorful sight below them.

"Only if you wear the same costume twice," Tess threw back with a chuckle as she leaned over the marble balustrade. "You see, part of the Bal Masqué's charm lies in people being able to hide who they are, in being able to become someone else. It's an escape from reality for them."

In another life, Jovan could see herself agreeing with Tess' words, but at the moment, all she saw was the irony of people pretending to be someone else for fun while she had to do it for her survival. After all, Jovan Rousseau was a girl that she had created from scratch for her own sake, for her own protection. She needed to say goodbye to Nathalie Sauveterre and had to become someone else so that she could live again.

Then there was the man residing beneath the opera house, a man who wore a mask as a barrier from the world that shunned him, feared him.

And Jovan finally understood why Erik chose to shut away himself whenever the holidays came around the corner.

It was the same as last year, the same irritability and choler that Erik caught whenever preparations began around the opera house. This time though, Jovan had noticed a more striking sense of melancholy around him than the previous year, something that seemed to lie deep in his bones as Jovan watched Erik grow less volatile but more quiet and brooding. If he had been quick to throw his scathing remarks about the holidays last year, he now kept them to himself, preferring to mope around in the silence of his home.

This development was hardly a favorable one as it only served to make Jovan worry more. She would rather have Erik grumpily ranting and being vocal about his thoughts than have him quiet as the dead, an attitude that bore a disturbing resemblance to his previous cold treatment of her several months ago. Though Jovan had been unable to find out the reason behind _that_ , at least she now had an inkling as to why he behaved moodily during the holiday season.

She was barely aware of her own feet moving away from Tess and the other ballerinas as Jovan began to walk, back into the direction that she and Tess had come from. She walked deeper and deeper, letting her feet drive her to a destination that she had yet to acknowledge. Before she knew it, Jovan found herself in the corridor of the dormitories. The space was thankfully empty but with only a few lit candles showing the way. The darkness that pervaded the corridor made Jovan confront her own desire to venture beneath the opera house, to a place where she knew a kindred soul resided.

When she unlocked the door to her dormitory, she was relieved to see that it was empty. Jovan proceeded to put on her cloak before she took a spare candle from her nightstand. After lighting it, she went straight to the mirror in the wall.

The air that greeted her in the dark passageway was cold.

* * *

When Jovan had first came to Erik's home, one of the things that she first noticed were the numerous candelabras that stood tall around the cavern. During all of her visits, the many candles that they held were always lit, scattered around the space so as to furnish the lair with light since it was a place that was well out of the sun's reach.

When she stepped into the cavern that evening, Jovan immediately noticed the absence of the distinct smell of candle wax that had always greeted her. The dark space before her took her surprise next, a quick sweep of her new surroundings letting Jovan know that not a single candle was lit in the lair. She strained her ears, but all she heard was deafening silence ― no music, no movement. Though startled by the unusual change-up and alarmed by how it reflected Erik's present state of mind, Jovan conquered her unease and walked deeper into the darkness.

A small gasp of surprise slipped from her lips when her foot hit something that let out a metallic groan in the dark. Clutching to her skirt as she lowered her candle to the offending object, Jovan saw that it was a fallen candelabra. Eyebrows creasing, the first conclusion that her mind jumped to was that Erik had thrown a tantrum. But as she proceeded to inspect the cavern further, she saw that the candelabra she had stumbled upon was the only thing out of place. With a sigh, she returned to the fallen object and stood it up. She was about to light one of its candles with the flame of the one she held in her hand when a low voice made her still.

"Jovan?"

She wondered how Erik could have recognized her despite the darkness before she realized that the candle she held had most likely highlighted the red hue of her unbound hair. Abandoning the candelabra, Jovan turned to look behind her, towards the source of the voice, where she caught the faint outline of Erik's lean form in the distance. He stood tall in one of the deeper recesses of the cavern, beneath the archway leading to one of the rooms. There was a faint source of light to Erik's left, illuminating the unmasked half of his face while the other half, the side where his porcelain mask usually sat, was obscured by the shadows.

"Erik," Jovan called out in response as she began walking towards him. She was stunned, however, when Erik left the archway and retreated back into the room he was in, the red curtains falling behind him. But that didn't deter Jovan as she continued, her curiosity raging and her feet moving until she was before the curtains which she pulled aside. The sight that greeted her flummoxed her as she realized that she had stepped into what was clearly Erik's room, a space that she had never thought of intruding before since she usually left the other rooms in Erik's home untouched out of indifference.

Ignoring, with great effort, the dark bed at the center of the room, the shelf to one side, and the papers and sketches that were stuck to the other wall (wait, was that a drawing of _her?_ ), Jovan's eyes fell on Erik's still form before his desk, his back turned to her as he moved carefully. She wondered what he could be doing at first when she realized that he was putting on his mask.

As she felt her blood run heatedly, Jovan quietly backed out of the room, ashamed of herself for intruding on Erik's space uninvited. As she turned over the thought of almost seeing Erik without his mask, she began to pace around the lair, patiently waiting for Erik to leave his room. A brief moment later, she heard the rustle of curtains behind her. Turning, Jovan saw Erik moving in the dark, carrying with him his usual air of grace and assuredness. His mask glinted, its white surface caught in the light of Jovan's candle.

"What are you doing here?" he asked sternly.

When he was a mere foot away, Jovan raised her candle to the level of her eyes, a sign for Erik to stop before he could get too close unless he wanted to be burned. At the same time, the candle illuminated his face, assisting Jovan in discerning the dark glint in his eyes. She almost shuddered at the way his eyes gleamed at her.

"Am I not allowed to check on you?" was Jovan's simple answer. Her voice was soft but filled with muted determination.

"I'm fine," Erik ground out, sounding as if he had said the same thing too many times for his liking. Jovan could only think that she was not the first person to have visited him recently, the only other person most likely being Madame Giry. "Now, _go_."

She watched, dumbfounded, as Erik then turned his back to her, slowly making his way back into his room. Suppressing the urge to reach out to him, Jovan instead raised her voice, loud enough for her words to resound in the cavern.

"Not without you."

Erik froze. As Jovan felt ice trickling down her spine at the eerie silence, he slowly turned on his heel, and he only turned his masked side to her, his amber eye meeting hers in the darkness.

"And what makes you think that I want to be up there?" he challenged with a sneer.

"Erik, I will not have you wallow in the dark while those above you revel in the light." Jovan swiftly answered as she approached Erik in one long stride, her resolve evident in the way her green eyes stared piercingly at Erik.

" _You_ will not have it?" Erik echoed, disbelief coating his tone, as he arched a brow at Jovan.

"Yes. As someone who cares for you, I will not have it," Jovan replied evenly.

"And what do you plan to do about _it?_ " Erik pressed, almost growling out his answer as he fully turned to Jovan.

A beat passed before Jovan gave her reply, one that clearly surprised Erik as his eyes softened at her words. "You're coming with me," she said, trying to sound final as she began to move around Erik's home, her eyes traversing the dark spaces while she held her candle in front of her. She felt Erik take a few steps towards the area she was currently rummaging through, confusion contorting his features as he wondered what it might be that she was looking for. He had not given a reply, and Jovan could only guess that she had stunned him into silence. She finally found what she was looking for when she spotted Erik's cloak draped over a settee. Grabbing it, she marched back up to Erik with an undaunted look in her eyes.

Erik looked like he was about to say something as she approached him but she beat him to it. "I will not take no as an answer, Erik," she remarked. Erik had stopped near a candelabra, and Jovan proceeded to remove one of its candles before replacing it with her own lit one. A soft pool of light surrounded them as Jovan dropped the unlit candle before she proceeded to wrap Erik's cloak around him, something that took much effort on her part given how tall he was. She could feel his surprise at her actions radiating off him as she fastened the dark fabric around his neck, his calculating eyes running all over her in a way that made her heart stutter.

Once she had firmly fastened his cloak, Jovan found her hands traveling upwards until they found the lines of his jaw. A long time ago, she wouldn't have dared to do such a thing, to touch him in such close proximity. But Jovan found that the darkness gave her a courage that she didn't have before, and it was intoxicating. A flash of heat traversed her body as her fingers glided across the pronounced lines of his jaw in a careful caress, her eyes never leaving his in the darkness. When she spoke, the words escaped from her lips low and warm.

"You are coming with me."

* * *

When they arrived at the rooftop, Erik didn't know whether to be surprised or not. He had come to realize a long time ago that it was one of Jovan's favorite places in the opera house, if not her very favorite, hence why she always frequented it. On the other hand, he'd thought that Jovan might have had a different and more intriguing destination in mind when she had dragged him away from his home.

As they stepped out into the cool December air, the music from the Masquerade was the first sound that Erik's ears picked up on. Shaking his head, he let his feet follow Jovan as the redhead walked near the edge of the rooftop, beneath a looming group of marble statues. It was a spot that would hide them well out of sight from any eyes that might happen upon the rooftop, yet it would still provide Erik and Jovan an unreserved view of the street below.

A crowd of costumed highborn men and women covered the steps leading to the Opéra Populaire. Erik eyed them with disdain as his eyes swiftly ran over the feathers, jewels, and carved designs of the masks they wore, a stark contrast to the plain white porcelain mask he wore. This was why he tended to avoid the Masquerade at all costs as it was, for him, a biting reminder that what they wore for mere amusement was something that he wore for protection.

Not for the first time since he left his lair, Erik questioned the virtue of Jovan's decision to bring him out of the depths of his melancholy on this night of all nights. She was not about to suggest next that he join the attendees of the Bal Masqué while citing that he would perfectly fit in because of the mask he wore, was she? She wasn't about to pull him in into another conversation about how happy the people looked from above their spot in the rooftop, was she? Because they had already done that―

"When I came down, you weren't wearing your mask, were you?"

Jovan's words brought an abrupt stop to Erik's cynical train of thought, catching him off guard. His brows furrowing in surprise, he lifted his gaze to her and met her soulful eyes, a sight that made his chest tighten.

"I wasn't," he answered stiffly, remembering how close she had come to seeing him unmasked, a scenario that caused a small hitch in his breathing as the first outcome that came to his mind was that of Jovan screaming in horror.

Then Erik remembered Léon, and he was no longer short of breath. No, Jovan would not run away in fright nor scream at the sight of his defect. He hoped. He wasn't sure.

"I just..." Jovan continued, pressing her lips into a thin line. "I want you to know, Erik, that the next instance that I drop by and you find yourself in the same state as you were awhile ago, you need not put on the mask."

Erik wasn't sure, but she sounded so sure and all that he dearly wanted as for the implications of her words to be true ― that she would not afraid or disgusted of whatever he hid beneath his mask. But how could such a thing be true when his own mother could not stand the sight of his deformity?

A dull ache blossomed in Erik's chest. "Why not?" he answered in a quiet voice.

"Because I want you to know that you can trust me. People may have screamed, laughed, or ran away at the sight of your face before, but know that I will not do the same. You can trust me, Erik, with this part of yourself that you hide from the world."

His eyes fell shut, the cool wind brushing against his bare cheek helping to soothe his mind. Trust? He trusted her, alright. But he was also frightened. Frightened that in the end, Jovan would be unable to keep the words that were escaping her lips at that moment, words that sounded very much like the prayers he used to whisper when he was a child.

"What lies behind this mask isn't the only thing of horror that I hide, Jovan." Erik found the words slipping from his mouth before he could stop himself. But, alas, he had only spoken the truth. Jovan might not run away from his physical defect, but what about when she learned of the distortion that lied deeper beneath his scarred skin?

"Then tell me." The way she said the words with unflinching resolve only made Erik's heart race faster, made something warm course through his veins.

"And have you run away from fear and disgust afterwards?" He sneered. "I think not."

Jovan didn't even care to conceal her annoyance when she replied, "Have a little faith in me, Erik. I'm not some wide-eyed innocent who will run away at the first sight of something terrible."

Terrible? Erik thought darkly. Terrible didn't even begin to describe the sins that he had yet to confess to anyone, save for Antoinette. But then a quiet voice in his head told him that if there was anyone who could listen to him recount the crimes he had committed in the past, it was Jovan. She would listen. Maybe she would choose to look past his crimes. Maybe. Just maybe.

And then there was a spiteful part of Erik that wanted to see if Jovan would indeed keep her word, wanted to know how far she willing to fall down the rabbit hole before she screamed back for the light.

Erik took in a deep breath.

"The word _terrible_ barely succeeds in justifying what horrors my own hands have committed in the past," Erik began, turning away from Jovan to spare himself from seeing the spark in her eyes disappear and be replaced with revulsion when he was done. "By now, I presume that you must have gathered that I did not remain here beginning the moment Antoinette saved me."

"A man who speaks Farsi, tells stories of a person called the Daroga, and who has Persian curtains in his home could have not stayed in the opera house his whole life," Jovan replied smoothly. "You've been to Persia, haven't you?"

"Yes," Erik breathed. He had been to many places before he came to Persia, but it was there that the darker parts of him were carved into the very crux of his being, now forever a part of him.

"I arrived in Persia when I was seventeen, and there I stayed for five years in the service of the Shah of Persia. It was the Daroga who had reached out to me when word of my talents had spread far and wide. For five years, I became servant to the Khanum, the Shah's mother. To entertain her, I performed tricks and illusions for her ― I became the court magician. But the Khanum's appetite was not to be easily satisfied as she was also bloodthirsty.

"For her amusement, I built traps for her, ones that were far more intricate and far more painful than the ones I have lying around the opera house. For her, I was made to build devices designed for pure torture. These hands that have created so much beauty through the way of notes and words... first created horrors that shouldn't have even seen the light of day."

Before him, Erik spread his hands with his palms facing upward. When Jovan had brought him out of his home, he had neglected to put on his gloves, and now the callused skin of his palms and fingers stared back at him. For the briefest of moments, he saw them smeared with blood, blood that wasn't his own. He blinked hard, drawing in a steadying breath, and his hands were clean again. He dropped them back to his sides.

"But that wasn't enough. Having also recognized my talents as an architect, I was commissioned to create a palace for the Shah, one that was elaborately designed with numerous traps, hidden passages, and secret rooms. At the same time, I was employed as an assassin for the court. The lives I took, the people I tortured during that time..."

Erik's arsenal of words ran dry for a moment. Beside him, he could feel Jovan standing deathly still, her silence indecipherable. Swallowing the thorn lodged in his throat, Erik carried on, his hands clenching into fists as the darkness of his past shrouded him in a shadow of guilt.

"Eventually, I became too involved with the politics of it all. I knew too much, and I became more of a danger than an asset. I became a target myself and lived through a handful of assassination attempts. It didn't take long for me to recognize that I had to leave. The Daroga assisted me in my escape, helping me return to France. It was the year 1871."

"1871? That was the year the Palais Garnier caught fire," Jovan remarked, and Erik was grateful for her response.

"Indeed. I had arrived just in time to make several modifications to the blueprints of the opera house during reconstruction. France never held any good memories for me, and I had no desire to live among those who would not hesitate to scorn me once more when they learned of what I hid behind my mask. So it was in the bowels of the new Opéra Populaire that I made my home, away from the cruel eyes of society."

A few seconds passed where mere silence followed. Erik drew in a calming breath, finally finished with his tale, as he braced himself for whatever reaction he would receive now. He could not yet find it in himself to look at Jovan, afraid of whatever he might see in those sharp green eyes of her. Would he see fear? Anger? Disgust? Erik didn't want to know, but he had to...

"So?" Erik snapped, his apprehension rearing its ugly head in the frigid tone of his voice.

"What?" came Jovan's reply with a softness that sent Erik's hear rate accelerating painfully.

"You have my permission to run. Scream. _Go_. Now that you know what I truly am, there's no reason for you to pretend that I'm not a monster in your eyes." Erik's voice began to rise and he found himself turning back to Jovan, his eyes ablaze with a fire that had been lit by Jovan's unreadable response. How did she feel about him now? Damn it, he had to _know_. In his heart, he could only hope that his words would not indeed send her running away ― he had merely spoken them to rouse a reaction from her aside from this _unbearable_ silence that she was giving off.

Erik froze. Was this how Jovan had felt when―

"Would you judge me by the sins of my past, Erik?" Jovan's low tone stole Erik's attention as he found himself staring back at a fire that similarly burned brightly in her stare. But she wasn't angry, no. It was the same fire that Erik glimpsed in her earlier in the evening, the flames of sheer determination and a steel conviction that he couldn't help but think looked perfect on Jovan.

"No," Erik answered truthfully. But maybe it wasn't the truth that applied to everyone, but only to Jovan herself.

"Good. Because I would not do the same to you, Erik."

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Icarus, who flew on fragile wings made of feathers and wax.

Having lived in isolation all his life, when he first felt the warm caress of the sun's rays during his first flight, Icarus found himself yearning for more of the sun's warm embrace. And so he flew closer and closer...

Erik felt a warmth wash over him as he watched the beginnings of a smile pull on the corner of Jovan's lips. At the sight of it and with her words still on repeat inside his head, Erik found himself wishing that the feeling wouldn't end. The voices in his head had long fallen silent, replaced by Jovan's distinct voice with its husky, low, warm tone.

"I said that I wouldn't run. So I won't," she then said.

 _No_. Jovan might not run, but she would leave, sooner or later. Erik knew well enough that her place was not in the Opéra Populaire, but out there, as Elea's parting words had implied before. He gave her a grateful nod to acknowledge her words, the most that he could do at the moment. Oh, Erik wanted to do so much _more_ ― to hold her in his arms, to brush away the hair from her face, to run his fingers along the line of her jaw ― but he held himself in place, knowing that he couldn't let himself get too close.

He remembered Icarus once more, how the boy had allowed himself to get too close to the sun and how he had fallen afterwards.

No, Erik couldn't let himself get too close unless he wanted to fall too.

For now, he would let the emotions stirring in his chest remain nameless as he relished the simple pleasure of having Jovan by his side. The world below them continued with their celebration, oblivious to the revelations that happened just moments ago between the two pariahs on the rooftop. Out of the corner of his eye, Erik saw the wind caught in Jovan's red hair, sending her locks wildly blowing away from her face while her cloak billowed around her figure.

He watched her as he saw the peace written in the lines of her face, and he knew that his expression mirrored hers at that moment, something that he could thank Jovan for.

Once upon a time, Erik only had his music to soothe his soul and to awake the fire in his veins.

But now, he saw that the young woman beside him had the very same effect that his music evoked in him.

And it unnerved him. He had never felt this way before.

What was happening to him?

* * *

Author's Note: Where are you, my lovely readers? It's getting quiet in here and I miss you guys...


	29. Masquerade

Author's Note: I know, guys. These two are an absolute train wreck. Also, I decided to post this one a little bit ahead of schedule because you lovely people got me squealing me in delight when I read your reviews. I honestly don't know what I would do without you guys ― thank you so, so much!

SourPatchJaz: I've honestly forgotten whether or not I've addressed that question before, but yes! I'll be following the canon timeline in the future, although there might be a few deviations to keep things interesting...

* * *

( _twenty-nine_ )

 **MASQUERADE**

* * *

" _Masquerade!_  
 _Run and hide_  
 _But a face will still pursue y―_ "

"I still don't understand why we had to pass through this way," Erik grumbled under his breath as the singing from the Bal Masqué persisted in his head even after trying to block out the words and the tune.

"Because of the possibility that we might pass by Mateo," Jovan answered with a roll of her eyes.

The two were currently making their way through an empty corridor in the upper rings of the ballroom. While Jovan walked in the candlelit part of the hallway, Erik hid himself well in the shadows, his talent in ventriloquy helping him to communicate with Jovan who was left with no choice but to look like she was talking to herself whenever she had to answer. Fortunately though, they had yet to stumble upon another living soul, giving them all the privacy they needed to banter. That didn't mean that Erik didn't remain wary of anyone who might come across them, his senses on high alert seeing what the occasion was.

"And why would you look for him in these parts?" Erik prodded.

"He loves to frequent this spot with the others. They love watching the ball," came Jovan's answer.

"And what, pray tell, is so important that you need to see him now of all times?" Erik didn't even bother to mask the irritation in his voice.

"I have a message from Julien that I need to relay to Mateo."

"Can't he do it himself?" Erik snapped.

"You're one to talk! Why don't _you_ deliver your own letters?"

"Keep walking. That's a poor argument and you know it. Besides, what does Julien have to say? A confession of his love, perhaps?"

"That's none of your business, Erik. Actually, that's none of _our_ business."

"Yet here you are, acting as Julien's messenger."

Jovan halted in her steps once more as she turned to the shadows. While Erik knew that he had hidden himself well from anyone's eyes, Jovan was clearly the exception as her eyes immediately found his despite the darkness.

"Alright, fine!" she hissed. "Stay here while I go look for Mateo."

"Not a chance," Erik scoffed.

"Erik, you are _not_ going back below."

"You forget who you speak to, Jovan." Erik answered darkly though he didn't really mean anything by it. There simply wasn't a chance that he was going to stay and watch the Masquerade on his own when he had no desire to.

"Oh yes. The mighty Opera Ghost." Jovan's tone dripped with sarcasm and Erik arched a brow at her, unimpressed. "Erik, I know damn well―"

But Erik didn't give Jovan the chance to finish as he heard laughter and footsteps coming down the corridor. He swiftly wrapped an arm around Jovan's shoulders while he placed a hand over her mouth, effectively silencing her. He then pulled her with him as he backed into a recess of the unlit part of the hallway.

Erik felt Jovan fall still within his grasp, having realized the situation. In the darkness, they watched as a couple passed by them, oblivious. They were donning masks and costumes, all clear indications that they were attendees of the Masquerade. Their arms were intertwined while a flirtatious laugh rolled off the woman's tongue. Good God, why were they up here and not down there?

Once the couple were out of sight, he felt Jovan pull away his hand from her face. "Well, this looks _familiar_ ," she whispered, sounding breathless which confused Erik. Why did she sound short of breath?

"What?"

"Although last time I was against the wall. This time, I'm against ― well..."

Erik then became aware of how tightly he had Jovan pressed against his own body, her back warm against his chest. As his mind processed their position, discomfort pricked at his consciousness while the dark creature inside him argued that the way he had pulled her away from the corridor, so differently than he had during the night they first met, was not accidental but by the design of his own primal impulses. As he felt as flash of heat traverse his body, Erik released her from his grasp. Jovan immediately backed away from him but stopped before she could leave the shadows.

Beneath his cloak, Erik lets his nails bite the skin of his palms to drive away the invasive thoughts in his head.

He heard Jovan inhale deeply. "Look, Erik," she began, obviously trying so hard to forget the situation earlier. "I won't be long. Once I find Mateo, I'll come back as soon as I can."

A smirk tugged at Erik's lips. "You'll come back?"

"Yes. For now, I want you to stay here so I can easily find you when I return."

Apparently, Jovan didn't want to hear him complain or protest further as the moment the words left her lips, she immediately turned on her heel and resumed walking down the corridor. She only glanced back a moment later to shoot Erik a reassuring look before she went behind a bend. Once she had vanished from his line of sight, Erik began to move around in the dark, his hands searching for a panel ― he was sure he had a passageway in here ― intent on not leaving but concealing himself for the time that Jovan was gone. After all, having seen the couple passing by moments ago, Erik had no doubt that they wouldn't be the last people who would think of using the corridor he was currently in.

He was about to unlock the passageway when the words from the celebration below wandered to his ears once more, as if to taunt him.

" _Masquerade!_  
 _Hide your face_  
 _So the world will never find you!_ "

" _Erik!_ "

He had been so caught up in his vexation for the Masquerade that when he heard his name being called, Erik feared that his heart might leap from his chest at his surprise. If he hadn't recognized the voice as belonging to Antoinette, he was sure that his hands would have found their way around the intruder's throat. Though Erik had long forsaken mindless killing, controlling his reflexes was another story.

He momentarily wondered how Antoinette could have easily spotted him before he decided that, perhaps, her eyesight was better than he credited her for. Additionally, he mused that no one would be able to find him unless they were actually looking for him. But why would Antoinette be looking for him? It was not to check up on him again, wasn't it?

"Good evening, madame. I trust that you find yourself enjoying the evening?" Erik answered smoothly as he turned around. Antoinette stood before him, dressed in black and her mask in one hand, while urgency flashed across her expression. Erik's unease was piqued when he saw her expression, and the air around them instantly dampened, the music from below fading into white noise.

"Where's Jovan?" Antoinette asked, her query nearly throwing Erik off balance. What was going on?

"How would I know? Why are you asking _me?_ " Erik answered, nearly sounding defensive.

Antoinette's face darkened with fear. "I've been looking for her for the past half hour! I thought she might have been with you."

"Calm down, Antoinette," Erik hissed, the woman's obvious worry getting on his nerves as he found his own distress rising. "She was with me a moment ago, but she left to look for a friend. Did something happen?"

Antoinette shook her head as she stepped closer to Erik, her voice lowering into an urgent whisper. "Erik, you need to find her. Keep her out of sight. Rémi Sauveterre is here."

The name that left Antoinette's lips turned Erik's veins to ice. "What?"

"Jovan's uncle, Erik! The last time he attended the Bal Masqué was nearly five years ago so I hardly know the reason why he's here now."

Erik's mind began to whirl with questions, the loudest of them being _why?_ But he decided that there would be a time for those things later. He sucked in a heavy breath to steady himself; he had yet to know the reason as to why Jovan was hiding, but Erik knew enough to understand that Rémi meant anything but good news. His apprehension left him as one goal permeated his every thought.

He had to find Jovan.

* * *

The corridor was quiet.

Jovan knew that she now walked one floor below the one she'd left Erik on. It was similarly empty, but she already had the misfortune of coming across one Masquerade guest moments earlier. The man had been donning the outfit of a harlequin, the bells of his hat alerting Jovan of his nearing presence which had given her enough time to conceal herself in the shadows. While she had yet to encounter somebody else, Jovan prayed that she would no longer do so. If she had to, she wished that it would only be someone from the opera staff or, better yet, Mateo himself. It didn't help that the carpet beneath her feet made it difficult to discern whether someone was coming from behind her ― while her eyes were fine-tuned to see in the dark, her ears were not as sharp.

Brushing a few strands of her hair away from her face, Jovan huffed as she quickened her pace.

 _Where are you, Mateo?_

In the candlelit hallway, Jovan saw no one coming from opposite direction she was coming from. Relief steadily filled her veins until all coherent thought fled Jovan's mind at the sound of her name.

But at the same time, it was not her name that she heard.

"Nathalie?"

Jovan faltered in her steps as she felt herself grow cold. Claws of ice gripped her heart as all air escaped from her lungs. Her green eyes widening in alarm, her feet stopped moving altogether as her own damn curiosity compelled her to turn on her heels. But Jovan didn't have to turn to know who had called her. The voice was undeniably feminine, but also chillingly familiar.

Behind her, Jovan saw the woman dressed in silks of blue, her blonde hair piled atop her head. Laurine Sauveterre stared back at her, shock written in her crystal blue eyes while her mask dangled from one hand.

Jovan's mind screamed at her to run, to duck into the shadowy part of the corridor, but she only found herself caught in the waves of the past, on an afternoon back in the home of her childhood. The raw memory brought back a sore throb on her cheek, where Laurine had slapped her a long time ago. But suddenly, it seemed as if it had only been yesterday―

 _How dare you! You dirty, cheap_ ―

Before Jovan could move, a gust of wind rushed down the hallway, taking with it all of the flames that the candles burned with.

In the blink of an eye, Jovan was submerged into pitch black darkness.


	30. Unholy Ghosts

Author's Note: Boy, there's a lot going on on this particular New Year's Eve. Also, I decided to include the years during which this story is set for my own ease and that of my readers. I placed years during after every New Year that is celebrated within the narrative (the chapters included are 1, 14, 24, and this one). And this chapter came out earlier than scheduled because I managed to make a few more in advance so hooray! It was an absolute delight to read the reviews for the last chapter ― thank you so much, guys! (and I have zero regrets with that small cliffhanger) ― so can you guys pretty please leave some for this one too?

Playlist:  
06\. The Other Side by Ruelle  
07\. I'll Be Good by Jaymes Young

* * *

( _thirty_ )

 **UNHOLY GHOSTS**

* * *

This was not good.

While Erik did not recognize the blonde woman, Jovan obviously had, and her reaction had been a bad one.

Once all the candles in the corridor were out, Erik dropped his cloak before rushing away from his hiding place and to Jovan. Before he had plunged the hallway into darkness, he recalled the look on Jovan's face, and he feared, for a moment, that she would have a fainting spell. But when he came up to her in the dark, Erik was relieved to see that she had not. However, Jovan had remained frozen to her spot, and she flinched violently in surprise when Erik curled his fingers around her upper arms.

"Jovan, it's me," he whispered. "It's Erik."

"Erik?" Her voice shuddered when she spoke, and she sounded like a lost child. Erik felt his heart twinge.

"Breathe, Jovan," he reminded her as he gently pulled her away from the middle of the corridor and to one of his passageways to the side. As Erik secured the concealed entrance, Jovan slid down against the hidden tunnel's walls. Erik hauled her back to her feet before she could touch the ground while his eyes caught the tremors that had taken a hold of her hands. That didn't look good.

"I-I need air," she gasped.

Erik gave a nod. He knew where to take her.

* * *

The rooftop was thankfully still empty when they arrived.

Erik immediately lowered Jovan at the feet of the closest statue which was, ironically, an angel with its wings spread wide. The sight of the marble sculpture caused Erik to silently curse as Jovan's story came rushing back to him, her story of him being a fallen angel.

Ridiculous, Erik thought darkly. What kind of angel was he if he couldn't protect Jovan within the halls of his own opera house? He shouldn't have let her go off on her own, especially during New Year's Eve of all nights, knowing that the Opéra Populaire would be sprawling with outsiders. He shouldn't have―

Erik cut his train of thought before it could continue. No, this wasn't about him. Right now, this was about Jovan.

At the statue's feet, Jovan had wrapped her cloak tighter around her form, but her hands were still shaking as her fingers were curled tight around the dark fabric. As gently as he could, Erik pried her fingers off her cloak then held her hands in his own. He went on one knee before her as he searched her eyes for any hint of what could be running through her mind, but he only saw a haze over the green depths of her distant stare. So far, Erik had yet to spot any signs of hysteria which was good, but he could hardly gauge what the extent of Jovan's reaction was if he didn't know who the woman was and what memories her presence had triggered in Jovan's head.

"Jovan, what happened? Who was that woman?" Erik tried, keeping his voice low.

Recognition flashed across her eyes, making the haze vanish. "Laurine," she gasped out, as if she had been holding her breath.

"You're alright, Jovan, you're with me. Who is this Laurine?"

Jovan's fingers tightened around Erik's hands the moment the question slipped from his mouth. She dipped her head and her hair fell to obscure her face, and for a moment, Erik thought that she would burst into tears. But when Jovan lifted her chin, Erik was stunned by the low fire that had began to blaze in her eyes.

"Laurine, she's ― she's my aunt," Jovan visibly struggled with her words. A muscle in her jaw tightened. "She's the wife of―"

She looked like she could throw up. Erik knew whose name Jovan was having a hard time trying to say, and it was the same name that she had seethed at Elea not to say out loud, the very name that Jovan could not bring herself to say. Erik grimaced at the implication of Jovan's reluctance. He needed to do something about that.

"Say his name, Jovan," Erik pressed, freeing his voice of any trace of emotion.

"I can't," Jovan rasped.

"Say his name," Erik insisted, his tone growing assertive.

Jovan released a shuddering breath as she glared defiantly at Erik. "I said, I can't, you wretch."

"Jovan, you cannot allow a simple name to have such power over you," Erik answered coolly.

A chillingly empty smile curled her lips. "Erik, you don't understand."

"I don't have to," he snapped. "Now, say his name. _Rémi_."

"I can't―"

"Rémi. _Say_ his name."

"You son of a bitch."

Erik was unfazed. "Say his name, Jovan," he demanded.

"You sound just like him," Jovan growled.

" _Say his name!_ "

" _Rémi!_ "

Her hands left Erik's, and they went to cover her face just as tears escaped from her eyes. He let out a quiet sigh of relief as he watched a sob wrack Jovan's body. Though he recognized that his method had been cruel, Erik had only been doing it to help her. But he wasn't about to explain that. He didn't need her understanding now, he needed her to be stable.

He heard Jovan suck in a sharp breath. Her hands left her face, revealing tear-streaked cheeks while her eyes stared ferociously at him. But Erik had a feeling that her anger was no longer directed at him.

* * *

When Jovan spoke, the words seemed to slip from her mouth with more ease.

"Laurine... is Rémi's wife," she breathed. Her chest was heaving rapidly as she did her best to prevent herself from hyperventilating.

"They're here tonight, Jovan," Erik answered quietly.

Jovan narrowed her eyes at Erik. "I figured that much," she snapped.

A frown crossed his lips. "What are you going to do?"

Jovan's eyes fell shut, anxiety washing over her. "I don't know," she answered, her voice sounding small.

"Rémi will know you're here, Jovan."

Her eyes blinked open at the sound of her uncle's name, and she felt a stab of nausea for a brief moment before the feeling left her. Jovan merely gave a nod, too tired to even consider what could happen to her once Laurine had told her husband of Jovan's whereabouts at the moment.

"Erik, I already ran away from him once," Jovan whispered, her agitation seeping into her voice. "I don't want to run away again."

"Then don't," Erik replied, and Jovan almost laughed when she heard his response.

Her gaze softened as she met Erik's eyes. "You don't even know why I ran away from Rémi in the first place." Jovan fell silent for a second when she realized how easily her uncle's name had left her lips. Her eyes widened for a second. It was... odd.

Erik's lips tugged into a smirk. Jovan's expression almost mirrored his as she remembered Erik's tendency to eavesdrop. In truth, she highly doubted that Erik was still unknowing of the reason why she was hiding in the Opéra Populaire. After all, she herself had let slip a few clues (along with that damn Vicomte Collet) though much of the picture was still left for Erik to figure out on his own. But now knowing that he didn't mind playing dirty, Jovan was absolutely sure that Erik now had a suspicion as to why she was hiding from Rémi.

"I might have some knowledge," Erik admitted, "but it won't compare to hearing the truth straight from your lips."

Jovan gave a quiet sigh. "It's not that I don't trust you, Erik."

His amber and green eyes were gentle. "Jovan, you asked me earlier if I would judge you by the sins of your past. I said I wouldn't."

She felt tears prick her eyes. "I believe you."

"Don't carry this weight on your own, Jovan. Before, you had Elea as your confidante... You can have me now."

At Erik's words, Jovan's chest was filled with a warm feeling that she could not quite put a name to. But the idea was dangerously seductive, the thought of being able to pour out into voiced words the secrets that had been weighing her down for so long. Jovan ached to release the poison that she was holding in ― the pain, the anger, the horror, the grief, _everything_ ― before it was too late and it succeeded in eating her away beginning from the inside. But she didn't know whether she was _brave_ enough to do that, because to do that would also mean uncovering her shame for Erik to see.

Jovan shivered as an unpleasant chill ran down her spine.

Where did she start?

Where were her words when she needed them?

Her temper flared.

"Rémi was lecherous," Jovan spat, unable to help herself, unable to help the anger simmering in her veins. "He was depraved, filthy. He was a _snake_ , and he took away my childhood ― me, his own niece, the daughter of his own brother, _his own blood!_ "

Something inside her snapped. Jovan rose to her feet and walked away from the stature while one of her hands found its way to her hair, her fingers entwining with her locks. She was breathing heavily as unshed tears of anger pricked at her eyes. Behind her, she heard Erik stand, his cloak rustling as he moved.

Her vision was clouded with red. She gave a pained whimper. "God, Erik, I'm just so _angry_. Not just at him, but also at myself." Jovan turned to look at Erik and she only saw his soft gaze. Her chest tightened. "I didn't try fighting back until it was too late. I just... I kept on letting him get away with it. I was too scared... I was a _coward_."

The last sentence left her with a sob. Just as she felt her legs beginning to shake, Jovan felt Erik approach her in one long stride. One of his hands held her steady by her upper arm while the other one tried to untangle her fingers from her own hair which she had began to pull.

"Jovan, what did he do to you?" Erik asked quietly.

She let out a shaky exhale as her fingers left her hair and grabbed onto the fabric of Erik's cloak instead. "Rémi was in love with my mother, Erik," she answered, her voice distant as she let herself be swept away in the current of the past. "He was _madly_ in love with her. He was in love with the way she moved, the way she spoke. He was in love with her red hair, her green eyes... all of which I had to be cursed with."

When Jovan lifted her gaze to look at Erik, she saw the recognition that had settled in them. "I was cursed with beauty, Erik. I was cursed with the same face that my uncle had fallen in love with."

"That's not love, Jovan," Erik answered, a small edge to his voice. "That's obsession."

"I know," Jovan bit out, gently tearing herself away from Erik's hold before she backed a step away and turned her back to him. "But Rémi didn't. He wanted to possess me. I suppose if he couldn't have my mother, then he would have me."

"Didn't your parents know?"

"By the time Rémi began to notice me, my mother was long gone. I was nine when she died. I was thirteen when Rémi transferred his attention to me. He was newly married then, but he had also just learned that his wife was barren. Laurine could not bear any children for him, and it created a rift in their marriage. During that time that they were apart, I think... I think that's when he noticed me."

"Thirteen," Erik's voice echoed behind her, cold as ice.

Jovan's heart raced painfully at the next words sitting on her tongue. It burned her with shame just to think of it, the memory of Rémi's hands lingering in unwanted places, her skin being defiled with his lips and his touch. There had even been a time when Jovan wanted to escape her own skin, to find a loose seam that she could tear open and leave through. When she found nothing, she had almost made a cut on her own skin with a blade in her bathroom.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her anger raging against her shame. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks.

"My father... He was always away to take care of the company, and he trusted Rémi to look after me in his absence. It was during those nights, those afternoons ― or simply whenever he wanted― that Rémi took all of me for himself. And it was whenever... I was in his arms, or... or beneath him, that he would tell me how much I looked like my mother. And he would keep asking me to say his name, again and again and again..."

"Why, Jovan? How could your father let this happen? Was he _that_ blind?" Erik didn't even bother to conceal his rising temper.

"No!" Jovan cried out defensively, turning to face Erik. "I told you it was all _my_ fault! Rémi blackmailed me into silence, he frightened me so, _so_ much. I did not only have my reputation to lose, Erik, but the family name was also in danger of being tarnished if anyone found out about what Rémi was doing to me."

She heard Erik sneer in disgust. "And you wonder why I despise society."

Jovan gritted her teeth. "And now you _know_."

"How long did he go on?"

Jovan stilled. "Long enough," she whispered. "But he did stop ― I can't believe he actually had it himself to stop." A bitter, humorless laugh left her lips. "But only because of Laurine. She had grown depressed after news of her barrenness, and more so when her marriage began to fall apart. It escalated to the point where she almost jumped off a balcony.

"Think what you will of me, but I was so damn grateful that Laurine tried to kill herself," Jovan seethed as she found her own feet driving her back to the statue she had been sitting beneath before. "That made Rémi take action, made him take Laurine with him as they went away to Spain to try and repair their marriage."

A loud, raucous chorus of laughter and screaming cut into Jovan's narration. Below the rooftop, the sounds of celebration resounded within the walls of the opera house and drifted through the foyer and out into the streets. Jovan closed her eyes when the unwanted reminder of the current occasion strayed into her mind. Why did she always have to suffer during the New Year?

"For a while, I was relieved. I was happy. When Rémi left, I thought I actually had a chance to put all of it behind me. I held out hope that I could start anew, that I could still heal from the damage that he inflicted, that maybe I could even find someone who wouldn't mind the damage that had been done. But then Rémi and Laurine returned when I was sixteen, and though they had mended their relationship, it seemed that it was still not enough for him to forget about me.

"He continued, of course," Jovan scoffed. "Laurine, she... she caught us one afternoon. I thought that maybe she would have been able to help me, but she was so blinded by her love for her wicked husband that it was too futile for me to even attempt to make her _see_. And then ― and then..."

Erik had neared her again as Jovan trailed off. As he stood a few feet away from her, her hands had began to shake again, and she balled them into fists to try and make the tremors leave. But they wouldn't, and Jovan's temper only spiked at how helpless she felt at the present, as helpless as she had seemed years ago. Dear God, how she _hated_ the feeling with every inch of her being.

"My father died shortly after I turned seventeen. After that, I just could no longer bear the mere thought of being _alone_ under the same roof as Rémi. But just when I'd began to make plans to leave for good, Rémi found out. And he was so furious―"

The last word slipped from her lips with a sharp exhale. That tremors that refused to leave her hands had spread to her legs, and Jovan returned to her spot at the feet of the statue. She sunk down on the marble as she wrapped her cloak tighter around herself. "He ― he had all the staff return to their homes on an indefinite leave. He told everyone that my grief for my father had made me inconsolable so I had locked myself away in my room. In truth, he was the one who had locked me up. I suffered there for a whole week, but it felt much longer than that. But at the end of the week, I got out. I escaped."

Her voice dropped into a whisper, barely audible that Erik had to inch closer to hear her. Jovan blinked away the remaining moisture in her eyes as she tried to regulate her breathing. As she did, a minute passed before exhaustion washed over her. It numbed her, dispelled the chills beneath her skin, quelled the fire burning in her veins, and she welcomed it. It was just so simple to be unfeeling, but why did she have to be gifted with a violent heart?

"How did you escape?" Erik's words cut into her stream of thought.

Jovan blinked. When she spoke again, her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. "You might hardly believe how. Even I could not bring myself, at first, to believe what occurred on the night of my escape. It was ― it was Laurine who helped me. But it was for the wrong reasons, of course. When she came into my room, she had looked at me as if she wanted to murder me. Then she told me that she wanted me gone from what was now her husband's home, all because she didn't want a harlot like me near Rémi. All because she didn't want me seducing her husband like the immoral, incestuous whore―"

Without realizing, Jovan was spitting out the words like they were poison on her tongue. She was reciting the words straight from memory, the very same words that Laurine had used on her on the night that she'd let Jovan escape. Somewhere during her raving, Erik had knelt before her again with his hands landing on her shoulders. He gave her a reassuring squeeze in a supposed attempt to calm her, and Jovan quickly fell silent as she bit her lip.

"That's enough, Jovan," Erik remarked.

Her eyes were brimming with stupid tears again. "I'm so tired, Erik," she sighed.

"I know." Erik's hands dropped from her shoulders as they went to claim her hands in a secure grip. Jovan held on as tightly to Erik's own hands, the warmth in them channeling through their shared touch and soothing the suffocating ache in her chest.

Another choir of voices reached their spot on the rooftop, but this time, it was synchronized chanting that she heard. Narrowing her eyes, Jovan strained her sense of hearing until she picked up the words being chorused by the people in the opera house below.

" _Twelve! Eleven! Ten! Nine―_ "

Was it that time already?

She felt Erik's thumbs caress the skin of her hands. "Jovan, how did you survive for so long?"

The countdown continued, but Jovan drowned it out in favor of Erik's voice.

There was a rueful twist to her lips when she answered. "What makes you think I survived?"

And then there was screaming, laughter of joy from the crowd below while greetings were being thrown about. _Happy New Year_. Overhead, the dark canvas of the sky lit up with a thousand lights, sparks of a hundred colors showering the night.

But Jovan couldn't find it in herself to care.

* * *

 _1878_

* * *

Her legs felt like lead as she trudged through the passageway. Her fingertips trailed the dust-covered walls of the tunnel while her other hand was firmly grasped in Erik's as he led her through the darkness. Jovan was silent throughout the walk, but her mind was another matter ― her thoughts were tangled in the wake of a storm, the wreckage left behind by the current of the past, an aftermath that left her feeling both hollow and... _lighter?_

"Erik, take me to the ballroom."

"What?" came Erik's startled response.

"Please," Jovan insisted. "I... I need to see him for myself."

They came to a stop, though Jovan doubted they had reached the dormitories. She heard Erik whirl to face her, his cloak swishing in the dark, then felt his piercing eyes land on her.

"Would that help you?" he asked, doubt tainting his tone.

"I'm not sure," Jovan replied truthfully. "But... I need to know."

Erik seemed to consider her decision for a moment before he turned again. He resumed walking, pulled her back into motion behind him, and Jovan let her feet move.

"Fine. I'll take you somewhere where they won't see you."

Jovan was hardly in a good state to assess anything at all at the present, but she was sure that there was a faint note of acid when Erik had spoken. It did not escape her, nor did the possibility that Erik could be angry after everything that she had revealed to him. But as to whom his ire was directed at, whether it was Rémi, Laurine, the both of them, or, worse, Jovan herself―

She internally slapped herself. Dear God, she desperately hoped that the last one would not be the case. Now that she had bared the pages of her past to Erik, now that she had uncovered herself to have been the plaything of another man, to have been nothing but a coward during her youth, would he still keep his word?

It wasn't long before Erik unsealed an entrance that led to God-knows-where within the opera house. Light weakly entered the passageway before Erik stepped out of the tunnel with Jovan right behind him. While Erik tended to the hidden entrance, Jovan blinked rapidly to let her eyes adjust to her new surroundings, and she saw that they were in the highest ring of the ballroom. She and Erik stood behind a thick column of marble, carved to resembled a Grecian pillar. There were a group of sculpted cherubs atop the balustrade, the statues large enough to conceal Jovan and Erik from the crowd that had gathered below.

Jovan held her breath as her eyes began to streak past the attendees of the Masquerade, taking in the bright hues and the dark shades of their costumes and the masks they wore. She was not looking for Rémi though ― no, the man would most likely be masked ― but she searched for Laurine instead. Though Jovan had failed to recognize her aunt's outfit, she did remember the shade of blue and the silk that she wore.

Air filled her lungs once more when she finally spotted Laurine. She now had her mask on, a playful smile on her painted lips, while her arm was wrapped around that of another. As Jovan felt Erik sidle up to her, her grip on the marble balustrade tightened, her knuckles paling with the strength of her grasp.

It was Rémi, and he was wearing the leather costume of a medieval hunter.

Her chest tightened. How fitting, Jovan thought, since his appetite had always been a ravenous one when it came to the carnal.

"Messieurs, mesdames!" An elated cry then rang out in the ballroom, accompanied by the sound of silver lightly colliding with glass. Jovan's eyes darted to the source of the sound, and she saw none other than the Vicomte Collet with a glass of champagne and a fork in his hands. He was dressed in simple evening attire save for a black mask that now sat atop his head, and he stood in the center of the ballroom, a small circle of empty space around him.

"Ugh, it's _him_." Beside her, Jovan heard Erik grumble like a petulant child at the sight of the Vicomte, and she would have smiled in amusement if her mood wasn't so grim at the moment.

They watched as their patron gave a toast to the guests, to the opera performers present, to Monsieur Lefèvre, and to the New Year. Jovan's eyes always kept straying back to Rémi, his face covered with a mask, but she recognized him enough by the way he held himself and the way he moved.

"I believe that I promised the lot of you some good news and bad news before the night could end," the Vicomte announced, and Jovan heard Erik sneer in distaste at their patron's now-obvious state of inebriation.

"Almost two years ago, I had the honor of becoming patron to Paris' ― and perhaps France's, too ― most beloved theater, the Opéra Populaire." Cheers rippled across the crowd. "Until last year ― which was just several moments ago―" Laughter. "Last December, actually, I was forced to forfeit my position in light of personal matters that have arisen outside the opera house."

Whispers began to scatter among the crowd, and a moment passed before a hush fell over them. Vicomte Collet waited patiently for them to finish before he continued. "That is my bad news for all you exquisite people. However, I also promised good news! And while it greatly disheartens me to have to retract my funding from the opera house, rest assured that I will be leaving the fine arts in the hands of someone that I believe to be much more capable than I."

The Vicomte's next words struck Jovan like a dagger to her breast.

She watched Vicomte Collet extend an arm to his side, in the same direction where Rémi stood not far from him.

Rémi took off his mask, his lips curved into a smile. Her blood turned to ice.

"Good people, may I present to you the Vicomte Rémi Sauveterre, the Opéra Populaire's newest patron!"


	31. Patron Saint

Author's Note: You guys are all too awesome for me. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed and put this story on their lists after that last chapter! Here's the next one too. Almost even forgot to edit it in light of the stuff school has been putting on my back as of late. Also, maybe a chill pill might be needed for this chapter? *ducks away into a corner*

thoroughly-inktroverted: That is definitely an interesting parallel! And I'm sure it won't even be the last one you'll see around here. They're certainly intriguing to think about, especially when you compare the mirror circumstances of the characters, you get what I mean? *wink*

* * *

( _thirty-one_ )

 **PATRON SAINT**

* * *

When Lefèvre entered his office on the morning of the first of January, he did not expect to have a visitor waiting for him.

"Miss Rousseau?" Lefèvre uttered as he shut the door to his office.

Jovan stood before his desk, her red hair neatly piled atop her head while she donned a high-collared blouse and navy blue skirt. "Monsieur Lefèvre," she greeted him quietly, dropping into a curtsy.

Too many times Lefèvre forgot of the blue blood that ran in the young woman's veins, and he watched with stunned features as Jovan demonstrated a grace that was usually absent whenever she was working in the Opéra Populaire. But Lefèvre thought, with an inkling of sadness, that a girl posing as someone from the middle class and who used to work as a stagehand had no reason to move around with poise and elegance, after all.

Jovan held herself tall and straight before the manager, her face eerily placid. Lefèvre felt a wave of unease wash over him as he gave her a bow in return. He already saw this coming ever since the Bal Masqué last night.

"I know why you're here, Comtesse," Lefèvre said, not bothering with using Jovan's chosen alias seeing as they were in the privacy in his office and were unlikely to be disturbed anyway; the majority of the opera staff had gone to their respective homes last night in light of the holidays. Though the sound of the title rolling off his tongue felt strange, foreign like an antique long lost. He had not used it with Jovan ever since she first came to the opera house and she had requested that she be called only by her alias.

Jovan blinked, expertly concealing her surprise at the use of her title, something that Lefèvre was sure she'd not heard in a long time. "I'm not angry, monsieur. I would just like to know why I wasn't told beforehand."

Lefèvre gave her a sad smile. "Of course you're angry, my lady. Understandably so. But will you give a chance to explain?"

He watched as Jovan gave him a smile in a return, a thin-lipped one. Lefèvre then gestured to one of the chairs before his desk. "Please, have a seat," he remarked before crossing over to his own chair behind the desk while Jovan took her seat.

"I never knew that Vicomte Collet would be bringing in your uncle to replace him as patron, Jovan," Lefèvre began. "Though I was aware that Vicomte Collet would be leaving for America, he refused to disclose to me who would be the Populaire's new patron. He simply told me to be patient and that it would be a surprise."

"If the circumstances were different, I'm sure it could have been a genuinely pleasant surprise," Jovan replied. "After all, Vicomte Sauveterre's brother did use to work here."

"He did, he did," Lefèvre answered with a nod. "Comtesse, if I only knew, I would have told you sooner."

"I understand, monsieur." Lefèvre searched Jovan's green eyes and saw sincerity in them, but her stare was tainted with faint traces of distress and dismay. Her voice was a monotone. "You're not to blame here ― I doubt you envisioned your new patron to be my uncle. He never admitted to being fond of opera after all."

"If that's the case, then why become patron to the Opéra Populaire?"

"Publicity, Monsieur Lefèvre. I'm sure he feels like a saint now." There was a hint of sarcasm in Jovan's voice.

"Well, whatever the case may be, my lady, I cannot have Vicomte Sauveterre as my patron―"

"No, monsieur," Jovan smoothly but firmly cut the manager, prompting Lefèvre to widen his eyes at her in surprise. "I will not have you remove my uncle as the Populaire's patron. He is a wealthy man, something the opera house is sure to benefit from."

"But, Comtesse... what are you going to do?" Lefèvre wondered in genuine confusion.

He watched as Jovan rose from her chair. "Monsieur, I came here to tell you that I am resigning."

Lefèvre froze. He knew that he should have seen this coming too but it all just felt too surreal, not after having Jovan in the opera house for more than two years. To see her leave now felt unreal, even if the person she was posing as did not ultimately exist.

"My lady, when you came here asking for refuge three years ago, I vowed to give you protection for as long as you needed it," he answered quietly. "After learning what your uncle did to you, how could I not? But now, how can I keep my word if I allow the Vicomte to be our patron while you struggle to find another place that can give you sanctuary?"

"Monsieur, I doubted that you would have allowed me to stay at the Populaire if I had not told you of what Rémi did to me." Jovan's voice was still calm but the controlled anger beneath it was palpable. "After all, none of my talents lie in anything having to do with opera. Tell me, would you have allowed me to stay if I had not told you of what happened to me before I came here?"

Lefèvre could try to lie, but the cold look in Jovan's eyes dissuaded him from doing so. "No, my lady."

He watched, with a whisper of guilt, as Jovan's jaw tightened. "Then don't feel compelled now to allow me stay here any longer."

"Comtesse, how can I _not?_ " Lefèvre raised his voice as he stood from his chair. "Something as simple as allowing you to stay in my opera house does not even measure up to the renown that your father once brought to the Populaire when he used to work here! I owe him _that_ much, Jovan, especially when his working here even brought a good amount of scandal to your family's name."

"Monsieur, things are no longer as simple as they were before last night!" Jovan countered. "My uncle is now patron of the Opéra Populaire, and that changes _everything_. Under no circumstances can he know that I used to work here, or we can only imagine how his wrath will manifest and how much of the Populaire will be end up being part of the collateral damage."

"Used to work here? But, my lady, I have yet to accept your resignation," Lefèvre breathed out, his voice dropping back to its normal tone.

"Please, Lefèvre," Jovan insisted quietly. "I am extremely grateful for all that you have done for me, but no more. There's nothing more you can do to help from this point onward without possibly harming yourself or the opera house."

Lefèvre gave a sigh. His chest tightened with something that faintly felt like guilt and a damning sense of helplessness.

"Well, then," he answered tiredly. "If that is indeed the truth, then forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive, monsieur," Jovan replied, forcing a small smile onto her lips that made Lefèvre's heart clench. "Do you accept my resignation?"

"I do, Jovan." He reached out a hand to her that she then took in hers and gave a quick squeeze.

"Thank you, monsieur."

Lefèvre let go of her and tried to muster a smile for her. "Wherever you might choose to go on from here, I wish you the best of luck, Comtesse."

He watched, with a heavy heart, as she gave him a rueful smile in return before she vanished behind the door of his office, leaving him to drown in the haunting silence.

* * *

The dormitory was thankfully empty when Jovan entered the room.

She quickly went to packing up her things once she had locked the door behind her. Last night's events had left her in such an exhausted state that she ended up collapsing into her bed after Erik had brought her back. When she woke up, the first thing she had noticed were the empty beds around her. When she realized that all of her roommates, save for Christine whose home was the Opéra Populaire, had left to return to their respective homes until the holiday break was over, she was unable to stop regret from creeping into her chest. She would never be able to say goodbye to any of them, especially Tess. At least, Jovan had thought to console herself, she could still give a proper farewell to her youngest roommate, Christine.

When Jovan came to the Opéra Populaire, she only had a single chest trunk that contained all of her belongings. While the whole actuality of her possessions would have barely fitted in a single trunk, she had only brought the essentials after all ― an impromptu escape from one's home forced a person to only carry the most important of their belongings, sentiment be damned. When Laurine had freed Jovan, she only had the clothes on her back and a few more possessions to bring with her. The rest of the things that Jovan now had with her were things that she had accumulated over the duration of her time away from home.

"You're leaving." The words came from behind her, and they weren't a question. Jovan glanced behind her shoulder to see Erik standing not far from the mirror.

She returned her stare to the things she had spread across her bed while she stood to the side of it. "I am."

"Where will you be going?" Though Erik's steps were silent as always, Jovan could feel him approaching her, the gravity of his presence unmistakable.

"Home," came her quiet answer; saying the word felt like there was a thorn lodged in her throat.

As if the silence in the room wasn't thick enough, it only grew heavier when she saw Erik come to a stop at the foot of her bed, before her trunk. Jovan stood to one side of her bed, and she straightened up when she felt Erik staring fiercely at her. When she locked eyes with him, she was startled by the anger burning in his mismatched eyes.

"Home?" he echoed, his voice dropping into a furious whisper. "Are you mad?"

Jovan's mouth grew dry as she tried to search for an answer that could placate Erik, though she already knew that the chance of doing so was extremely slim. She abandoned her endeavor and decided to give it to him straight and simple. "Laurine saw me last night, Erik. What are the chances that she already told Rémi that I've been hiding here all this time? I wasn't wearing a formal dress or a costume last night, which leads to the only conclusion that I'm part of the staff here. For all we know, she and her husband could be on their way here right now."

"She's the same woman who set you free. You cannot be sure," Erik argued, but Jovan could sense the weakness of his conviction in his voice ― almost imperceptible, but she had learned to recognize doubt when it was there.

She gave a scoff as she picked up a sheaf of papers from her bed. "And she's the same woman who beat me and called me a whore. Only God knows what goes on inside that woman's head," Jovan retorted, allowing her spite to seep into her voice while she moved to the foot of her bed where her trunk was. Erik stepped aside to make way for her, and Jovan fell to her knees before her trunk as she began to pack in her papers alongside her other belongings while Erik stood behind her.

"You didn't tell Lefèvre anything about this. About Laurine seeing you last night." There was no accusation in his tone, only a flat statement. Jovan was not surprised with his words; she'd always had a suspicion that he had eavesdropped on the entirety of her conversation with the manager, and now she had a confirmation.

Her hands paused inside her trunk as she lifted her eyes to stare blankly ahead of her. Guilt nipped at her for not divulging that specific information to Monsieur Lefèvre, and her reason for not doing so only made the weight in her chest grow heavier. She simply didn't want to let the aged manager know that what happened last night had most likely spelled the beginning of a sentence for the opera house, and it was all because she had been careless.

 _Guilty, guilty,_ a part of her chanted cruelly inside her head. Jovan swallowed thickly before resuming putting her papers into her trunk.

"All the more reason for me to go to Laurine and Rémi. I need to stop this before anything else happens."

"Just like that? You're not even going to try and fight back?" Erik's voice rose a notch, his simmering anger unmistakable.

Jovan rose to her feet and turned to Erik. She didn't realize that he was standing so close behind her and he ended up being too close for comfort. Their proximity only intensified her discontent, but she made no move to step back. Instead, her anger took control of her, and she only inched closer to him.

"I already lost the battle before it even began," she grounded out.

Erik's eyes were ablaze. "Only because you're raising your white flag so soon."

"How can I not, Erik? You speak as if I have the means to fight back ― _I don't!_ "

"You have _me,_ Jovan. I can help you." The change in Erik's tone caught Jovan off guard, more so the sudden tenderness in his green and amber eyes, and she tried to stop herself from staggering back in surprise.

"Erik, no," Jovan replied evenly. No, she would not allow him to get caught in the battles that were only supposed to be hers.

"I offer you my help and you refuse it?" Erik answered darkly.

She gave him a humorless smile and shook her head. "You once feared that I might bring danger to the doorstep of the Populaire. Well, I've gone and done it." A shrug left her shoulders as the smile left her lips, and her tone grew softer. "I'm really sorry, Erik. I didn't really mean for this to happen. You were right to be suspicious of me ― I may not be a criminal or a vile person, but I might as well be one because of the peril I have now brought to you and the people here."

Erik gave a scoff. "Whatever that damn Vicomte does to the opera house, I shall do to him twofold in return." His words oozed with confidence and Jovan did not doubt them, but they also served as the struck match that lit the fire of her anger.

"You're going to turn the Populaire into your battlefield, damn it!" Jovan exclaimed. "This _isn't_ your fight, Erik, so _stay away_."

The scoff that left Erik's lips made a veil of red drop over her vision. "Impossible, _Comtesse_ ," he drawled, and Jovan was unsure if he was mocking her. His tone was that of a man who would not allow himself to be ordered around. "After all, if you refuse to prepare for war, then I shall gladly take over the responsibility."

"I'm trying to take the fight away from here!" Jovan ended up raising her voice, uncaring of whoever might hear her beyond the walls of the dormitory.

"By sacrificing yourself?" Erik spat back.

"I've done it before, I can do it again," Jovan snapped, shaking with barely contained anger. She clenched her fists at her side as a rash urge tried to overtake her, the urge to grab something and hurl it away from her as a release for the anger burning hotly inside her. _No. Not this time._

A snarl left Erik. "I will _not_ allow it."

Jovan had nothing to say in return when she heard the variation of her own words from last night. Instead, she unclenched her fists and dropped back down before her trunk. Stubbornly, she shifted her eyes away from Erik and to the fabrics that sat before her. As quietly as she could, she began to draw in deep breaths in an attempt to quell her temper before she ended up doing something she might regret.

When it was apparent that she wasn't going to answer Erik, he let out short, harsh bark of sarcastic laughter. "Have you not suffered enough, you reckless girl?"

 _Girl_. Jovan's fingers tightened around the fabric of the shirt she held when she heard the word. She wasn't a girl anymore, she was no longer a _child_.

"I have," she began, shoving the shirt deep within her trunk as she gritted her teeth. "But I would rather that I suffer instead of the people here."

"Do _not_ make yourself into a martyr, Jovan," Erik admonished her sharply.

Jovan shot up to her feet, her veins alight with newfound anger. " _What?_ Do you think I'm doing this out of some misplaced sense of self-righteousness? Or do you think that I'm a masochist perhaps?" she seethed venomously at Erik, her voice a low but furious whisper. "You don't know how _desperate_ I am for another way out. But there just ― isn't ― _one._ "

"Your anger and your panic is clouding your mind. There _is_ another way out if you work hard enough for it," Erik hissed.

"Your stubbornness isn't going to open a door where there isn't one, Erik." The moment the words left her lips, Jovan could have slapped herself at her idiocy. What the hell was she saying? This man _literally_ had a maze and hundred hidden doors in the walls of an opera house.

A small part of her was grateful that Erik chose not to comment on her foolish choice of words. The remark that left his lips, however, struck a heavy blow that made Jovan's knees weak.

"You told me that you were a coward before. Are you being a coward now?"

" _What?_ " Jovan narrowed her eyes at Erik.

"Look at you, Jovan. Surrendering to the enemy instead of standing your ground for a fight."

"This isn't a _game_ , Erik! There is too much at stake! The Opéra Populaire itself, the people who work here! You don't know how my uncle might choose to bring down his wrath when he learns that I've been hiding and working here for the past three years."

Erik's eyes grew sharp with a dark gleam. "And he also doesn't know of _my_ own wrath, which he shall have a taste of if he even dares to tear down a single wall in this opera house."

"You are so goddamn stubborn!" Jovan snarled.

"Better to be a stubborn, reckless fool than a _coward!_ "

Jovan gave a sharp inhale.

There was a loud, resounding _bang_ that echoed in the room. Jovan did not realize it when her hand had found the edge of her trunk's lid, and she had slammed it shut with more force than necessary. There was a violent glint in her green, tapered eyes as she glared fiercely at Erik.

"Do _not_ call me that."

"Then don't act like one," Erik answered with matching severity.

Her first instinct was to turn on her heel and walk away. When some of the red in her vision ebbed away, the realization that she was in her room dawned on her, and Jovan lifted her chin as she stood unwavering against Erik's intense stare. No, she shouldn't have to be the one to leave this time.

"Get out," she growled.

He gave a derisive huff. "As you wish, Comtesse," he snapped before flinging his cloak behind him as he turned and marched towards the mirror.

The offhand usage of her title made all air escape her lungs as her legs grew weak. As the mirror quietly snapped shut in Erik's departure, Jovan sat herself on her trunk, her whole frame shaking like a leaf. Salt stung her eyes and she buried her head into her hands as she bit her lip hard until blood was drawn.

 _Good God, please help me._


	32. The Hanged Man

Author's Note: So this is a bit late... Thank you, thank you so much to everyone who left reviews at the last chapter! I'm touched by the love I keep getting from you guys. Please keep sending your kind words, they keep me going so I can write for this story despite the increasing amount of school work getting dumped on my plate.

Child of Dreams: Imagine if Erik learns that he'll also have to deal with the Vicomte de Chagny in the future. We'd be witnesses to the greatest rage quit in history.

MarieUni: It's wonderful to know that this story serves as a de-stressor for someone, thank you!

* * *

( _thirty-two_ )

 **THE HANGED MAN**

* * *

The black coach gently rolled to a halt on the cobbled streets before the Opéra Populaire.

Its sole occupant pushed away one of the dark curtains framing the windows and stared out at the grand edifice before him. The opera house stood tall and imposing against the starry tapestry of the night while snow fell to gently coat the steps leading to Paris' most renowned theater. On the day after New Year's Eve, the place was quiet and free of any traces that told of the Populaire's lavish Masquerade last night. The previous evening had indeed been an eventful one, and while gaining the patronage to the opera house was a grand achievement on its own, he didn't consider it to be his greatest one. No, it had to be finding out where his beloved niece had been hiding at all this time. Now that had been the true highlight of the night.

 _Not a bad start to the new year. Not bad at all._

The door to the coach then swung open, revealing the coachman waiting behind it.

"Vicomte?" he asked with a courteous bow, awaiting orders.

"Ask if Monsieur Lefèvre came in today," Rèmi then instructed the coachman, "I have an urgent matter I need to speak with him about."

* * *

When Jovan's back began to ache from her bent-over position on her trunk, she moved to her bed and remained curled up there for the rest of the day.

Morning and noon passed but she refused to move from her bed, even when Christine tried to pull her away for lunch. Jovan drifted between states of sleep and rumination, her arms tightly wrapped a pillow like it was a life line. The rest of her unpacked possessions were long forgotten as they were moved to the foot of her bed, yet to be placed properly in her trunk. The will to move around had seeped out of her bones and was replaced with an exhaustion that sat deep beneath her skin, effectively holding her in place.

Her conversation with Erik earlier in the morning left her weary, making the hollowness she felt in her chest grow twofold. Opening up to him had been a thorny thing since ― even if her scars had begun to heal ― baring her sins for him to see and judge her for was something she had been trying to avoid for the whole time that she'd known him. It wasn't even the fact that she had been raped numerous times by her uncle that she was most ashamed of ― she had long come to terms with that, though that didn't mean that she could forgive Rémi for everything that he had done ― but the fact that she knew that she had acted like a coward for that period of abuse in her life.

When Erik called her a coward, it had hurt more than Laurine's strike. It felt as if the dagger embedded in her chest had been twisted, and by someone she dearly trusted, no less.

Having been unable to fight back during the times that Rémi violated her left her sore in more than one ways. But the fear was just too rooted deeply during those times, and she didn't have the items at her disposal that she needed to hack at the roots. Elea had assured her many times that it wasn't Jovan's fault, and sometimes she believed her but sometimes she didn't.

It certainly didn't help that the first time she tried to fight back, Rémi had only threatened to hurt the only parent she had left, his own brother.

He kept true to his word when Jovan fought back for the first time. Raphael was caught in an accident while riding his carriage one day, one that had twisted the skin on his leg and given him a limp. It was listed off as the foolish mistake of their coachman, but Jovan knew better, especially when Rémi visited her the following night in her room, cooing at her to stay silent unless she wanted her father's other leg to be amputated the next time around.

Jovan never stopped imagining how much better her life could have been if she had tried to fight back, her fears and her own father be damned.

But she wasn't that brave. She wasn't that strong.

At least, that was before.

Now that she thought about it, she had nothing left to lose this time. Well, _almost_ nothing. The only possible leverage that Rémi could hold against her now was the Opéra Populaire and the people who worked in it. But even if Elea was away and safe in England, there were still other people to think about. Mateo. Tess. Christine. Monsieur Lefèvre. The stagehands and the seamstresses, people that she didn't bond with that much but people that had still given her help when she needed it. Everyone who worked at the opera house would be caught in the crossfire and it would be all her fault.

And then there was Erik. Brilliant, beautiful, talented Erik. Volatile, neurotic, dangerous Erik. Her friend and her present bane.

Her heart clenched painfully at the very thought of him, so Jovan pushed him to the back of her mind.

She gave a deep breath. It had to be nightfall by then, and she hadn't had anything to eat yet. Her stomach had been protesting in hunger for hours but Jovan knew that she could take it. After all, it wouldn't be the first time that she'd starve herself. There had been many opportunities to starve herself back home, especially after her father had died.

Jovan's eyes fell shut. She shifted atop the sheets of her bed when her foot hit something. Her eyes lowered until she saw that the object was actually a book, one of four that she had accumulated during her stay at the Opéra Populaire. She remembered that she had yet to finish packing up her belongings and she let out a soft groan at the realization. Even if she finished packing up tonight, she would have still have to leave tomorrow. Going out at night was too much of a risk, especially when she had yet to find a new place to stay at, and she also doubted Madame Giry would let her go at such a late hour.

At least, she thought to console herself, neither Rémi or Laurine arrived at the opera house that day, against all odds and expectations.

It was at that exact moment, when the thought entered her mind, that Madame Giry also burst through the door of the dormitory.

A startled Jovan shot up from her bed as she stared at the ballet headmistress with stunned features. The stern woman was composed as always, but there was a gleam of urgency in her eyes along with a dash of fear. The way Madame Giry instantly rushed to her bed made Jovan stumble to her feet at the intensity of the older woman's stare at her.

"You need to get out of here, Jovan," Madame Giry remarked as she began to hurriedly shove the remainder of Jovan's unpacked things into her trunk.

Jovan's heart raced as her mind pieced together the implication of Madame Giry's words. "Madame, what's happening?" she asked as she assisted the older woman with her possessions.

"Your uncle is here, Jovan. He's talking to Monsieur Lefèvre in the lobby and he knows that you're here."

The words drew all the air out of Jovan's lungs.

She was wrong.

Jovan didn't realize she had frozen until she felt Madame Giry grip her upper arms tightly. "This isn't the time to panic!" the ballet headmistress admonished her, and Jovan could only nod before Madame Giry released her and proceeded to shut her trunk close.

There was ice gathering in Jovan's veins as she stared mutely as the ballet headmistress. "Madame, what would you have me do?" she asked in a whisper as she picked up her cloak from the foot of her bed. Although Jovan knew what she _needed_ to do, she didn't want to do it; she didn't know if she was brave enough. Her heart raged painfully in its cage in her chest as she silently ran through her other options. None of them held appeal.

"Go to Erik and have him help you with your things," Madame Giry then answered, gesturing to Jovan's trunk. The redhead's eyebrows creased when she heard the older woman's words, and they set off a spark of red in her vision. "Stay at his home for the meantime until the coast is clear for you."

"What? _No!_ " The protest fell from Jovan's lips in a furious whisper. She didn't want help from Erik. At least not right now.

Madame Giry sent her a questioning look, a withering look in her eyes. "What do you mean 'no,' you stupid girl?"

"I meant what I said!" Jovan then raised her voice, causing the ballet headmistress to flinch back in surprise. A tiny of stream of regret shot through Jovan but it was easily dismissed with the anger stirring in her veins. No, she was done with this. She wasn't stupid or reckless, she wasn't even a girl anymore. But most of all, she tired of being a coward.

Perhaps she was being rash, her temper getting the better of her. But Jovan already had her mind made up as she moved to secure her cloak around her shoulders. Madame Giry merely stared at her, a silent demand for an explanation in her stern gaze.

"Madame, I will see him," Jovan said resolutely as she crossed over to her nightstand to pick up the lone black ribbon that sat atop it. "I will see my uncle and I will speak to him," she insisted as she tied her red hair back into a low ponytail.

"Have you lost your mind?" Madame Giry replied, aghast. _Are you mad?_ Erik's words rushed back to Jovan, and she shook her head.

"My head's right here, madame. I just grow tired of... _this_. The hiding, the running. No more."

The ballet headmistress gave a subtle shake of her head, as if she disapproved of what Jovan wanted to do. "Jovan, there is no going back if you're going to do what I think you're about to do."

Jovan squared her shoulders. Her hands were shaking, she was starving, there was pressure building behind her eyes, her chest ached, her heart was beating wildly in her rib cage, she was so, so _scared_ , but she knew what she _needed_ to do.

"Madame, everyday, I am surrounded by singers, dancers, and actors who are defined by their passions, the things they do. If I continue to run and hide away, then what does that make me? If my actions define me, then I refuse to be a coward for any longer."

"Jovan, no one is calling you a coward." Madame Giry's tone grew soft.

Her jaw clenched, a sardonic smirk crossing her lips. "I'm not going to wait until someone starts calling me one."

* * *

The sun had yet to set when Jovan exited the doors of the Opéra Populaire.

The hood of her cloak was fully drawn over her head that it shadowed her features and hid the distinct color of her hair. Nausea gnawed at her insides as she heard the grand doors of the opera house fall shut behind her. The steps before her were covered with snow and the streets were too, making the black coach ahead too easy to discern among the sea of white.

For a second, Jovan found herself wanting to run back inside the Populaire, back to safety. But she silenced the rebellious thought and instead drew in a deep breath.

She had to remind herself to breathe as she descended the steps of the opera house.

It was when she was on the last few steps that the door to the black coach opened. A man stepped out, and Jovan felt her stomach drop.

Rémi looked exactly as he did when she ran away three years ago. A mass of curly black hair sat atop his head. His eyes, a shade of blue that Jovan always likened to ice, locked with her green ones the moment he went to stand to the side of the coach's door. As she stared back at him, the monster of her childhood, she realized how it still scared her that he looked so much like her father. It was a fact that only made her ordeals much more horrifying to bear.

When he spoke, it was with a tone of concern that almost made her sick there and then.

"Nathalie," he crooned to her in a low voice. "Is it really you?"

A sharp, scathing retort sat on her tongue, but Jovan could not bring herself to say it. She settled for a simple greeting.

"Hello, uncle."

She could've sworn that the way his lips curved resembled a smirk more than a smile. He held out a leather-gloved hand for her to take as the door to the coach's black interior remained open. The darkness before her looked like it was ready to swallow her, but Jovan held her chin up as she buried her fears as deeply as she could. She went down the last few steps before striding over to the carriage, ignoring Rémi's outstretched hand as she helped herself up into the carriage all by herself.

As she seated herself inside the dark, enclosed space, Jovan refused to let her eyes leave her uncle as he followed her inside, closing the door behind him. He sat opposite her, holding a straight expression as he gave her a once-over. Jovan tried not to fidget under his gaze, but it was hard not to do so when he had done such a simple thing so many times to her in the past with a hungry gaze. The only difference now was that his blue eyes remained chillingly unreadable.

"You have no idea for how long and how far I've searched for you," Rémi then said, softly. "And here I thought that I had looked everywhere in Paris. I should have looked closer."

"No," Jovan answered, keeping her voice firm. "You just always looked in the wrong places."

His lips twitched upwards. "Perhaps. But you were always a clever girl. Even with hiding, you're thinking like your father taught you to."

When he suddenly moved forward, it took all of Jovan's self-control to not scream. But it was just like before, her fear locking her into place, as Rémi reached out to tug the hood of her cloak away from her head. He was dangerously close, his face hovering only mere inches before hers, while his eyes focused on her now-exposed hair. He reached out once more, this time to untie the ribbon holding her red locks in place. Once her hair was unbound, Jovan released a shaky breath just as Rémi's eyes flashed with satisfaction. He dropped her ribbon on his lap.

"There's no need to hide anymore, Nathalie," he whispered, and Jovan wished that he would just drop the act. "They're looking for you, you know. The company. They're wondering where the Comtesse is, they have been ever since you left. I told them that you had left the country to travel, to clear your mind and soothe your grieving soul after your father died. But there will come a time when they'll eventually stop believing the lies. I need you to come home, Nathalie, before that happens."

Something in his words ― no, _all_ of his words ― sparked her dormant rage back to life. As her uncle spoke, he toyed with a lock of her red hair, entwining it in his finger before the soft curl slipped from his grasp. He then moved his fingers to the line of her jaw, but Jovan leaned away from his reach just before he could touch her.

She stared fiercely at him. "Is that the only reason why you want me to come home?" she whispered, venom trickling into her tone.

Rémi feigned surprised at the subtle change in her tone, his brows furrowing. "Of course not, dearest. I missed you too."

Jovan threw her hand back before she whipped it across her uncle's face. Her anger reached a crescendo, and she watched with a vague sense of satisfaction as he reeled back from her slap, one hand reaching to touch the skin where she had hit him. Her palm stung but she barely processed it ― there was only the fire in her veins.

His blue eyes were tainted with horror as he stared at her, and then his eyes darkened. As Jovan heaved with the anger boiling beneath her skin, her fury then slowly morphed back into fear when Rémi took off the black glove off his right hand. Her mind began running to the worst conclusions, and she instinctively backed away as the signet ring on her uncle's finger came to sight. He twisted it before he then lifted his hand and struck her, _hard_.

A gasp left her. She had not anticipated that, and Jovan's hand flew to the burning skin as a low chuckle escape Rémi's lips. The skin stung brutally, and her horror only grew twofold when she felt something warm on her fingers. Pulling her hand back, the sight of blood on her fingers greeted her. He had cut her.

"Feisty," her uncle then remarked. Gone was the softness in his voice, replaced by subtle malice and chilling coolness, the Rémi she knew. "If only you were as spirited back then."

Jovan's lips pulled back into a sneer as she then lifted her head to glare at him. "Go to hell."

"Ah, I see your time at the Opéra Populaire has indeed left its mark. Such coarse language does not become you, Nathalie." Rémi twisted his ring back into its original position, but not before Jovan saw the speck of blood that now covered the coat of arms carved into the gold, her family's emblem. So he knew, Jovan thought with a shadow of dread, that she worked at the opera house. Laurine had told him of their encounter after all.

"You're not taking me back, Rémi," Jovan declared, keeping her voice from shaking.

"Of course not, darling. You'll be coming with me of your own accord," he answered coolly as he slipped back on his glove.

"What makes you think I'd do that?" The words left her lips in a hiss.

"Because if you don't, the opera house will suffer for it."

There came the words that Jovan had been fearing. The straight expression struggled to stay on her face, marred only by a few lines of anger. Fear began to crawl around her walls once more, and Jovan balled her hands into fists on her lap to keep away the tremors. She was right, Good God, she was right. She was right and she hated it.

"You were away for three years, Nathalie. I reckon you'd have forged a few friendships here and there. Maybe even found yourself a lover," Rémi continued, his blue eyes gleaming with animosity, turning to scathing hate when he mentioned the possibility of a lover. Jovan tried not to wince as his voice turned cruel with unconcealed envy and pain.

His face contorted with anguish for a brief moment. "Tell me, is he any good? Does it feel nice when he's inside you? Does he make you scream his name? You never did with mine, you were always _crying_."

"No, stop ― _just stop_. I _hate_ you," Jovan spat at him. "I always did and I still do."

Rémi shook his head ruefully. "Nathalie, don't make this any difficult."

"Difficult? You made me go through hell, damn you." Hot tears began to prick at her eyes, but Jovan refused to let them fall. "Why are you here, Rémi? What do you want with the Opéra Populaire?"

"There's no need to be so suspicious," her uncle sighed. "Is it so horrible of me to want to support the same opera house that my brother used to work at? The same opera house where my niece works?"

"I no longer work here, uncle."

"That won't change a thing, dearest. I truly wanted to offer my help to the Populaire, but seeing as it's where you've been hiding all this time..."

Jovan furiously shook her head as she tried to curb the swell of panic that rose in her. "What kind of patron condemns the very place he wants to help?"

"I'm only a patron, Nathalie. I'm not a saint. Besides, you need to learn your lesson. You could have run far away from here, taken a ship to America or Italy, but no. You had to play it smart and stay close to home, where you knew I wouldn't look. Now that I think of it, maybe it wasn't such a clever move after all. Maybe it's more on the side of foolish, or even cowardly."

"Then punish _me._ Leave the Populaire out of this. None of them have to suffer for my mistakes!" Jovan whispered in a low, harsh tone, more angry than pleading.

A chuckle rolled off Rémi's tongue. "Punish you? All you had to do was ask―"

Jovan's hand connected with his cheek once more as she damned the consequences. Her green eyes now blazed with the unmistakable flames of fury as she stared down her uncle. When Rémi retaliated by taking her chin in the strong grip of his hand, Jovan didn't let her gaze drop. There was a gleam in her eyes that bordered on murderous, but Rémi appeared to be unfazed by her withering glare.

He lowered his tone into a threatening timbre. "You _will_ listen to me and _obey_ me, dearest. Unless you want the Populaire to pay for your faults, you will board this very same coach tomorrow at nine in the morning. Bring everything you own with you because you will not be coming back to this opera house. Disobey me and ruin will fall upon the Opéra Populaire. Escape as you did three years ago and I will _find_ whoever you've been dallying with and, mark my words, they will _suffer_. Friend, lover, or mentor, I will find every single person you've come to call an ally and make them pay."

"You're _insane,_ " Jovan gasped out as she tugged away Rémi's hand from her chin with all her strength. Horror gripped her insides as, not for the first time, Jovan glimpsed the disturbing extent of his fixation with her. _No_. Fixation wasn't the word, it didn't do Rémi's actions enough justice. Erik was right ― this was obsession.

"Call me whatever you want. But what I am is a man of my word," Rémi calmly answered, a faint trace of iciness in his tone. "Besides, it's not like I'm not giving you a choice. Go ahead, run. I won't stop you. But then you won't be able to stop me from destroying this place."

"Is that all?" Jovan seethed.

Rémi gave a nod of his head. "Be grateful I'm giving you one more night to say your goodbyes. Use it wisely."

Jovan didn't think that there was more to be said or anything more that could be negotiated, at least not with a man as uncompromising as her uncle. Casting one last scathing glare at him, Jovan began to move to towards the door of the coach when Rémi also moved from his seat and pinned her back against the coach's interior.

A small yelp left her as Jovan immediately placed her arms over her chest as a barrier. Her heart thundered painfully in her chest as she struggled against her uncle. But Rémi was much stronger, and Jovan's fear amplified at how he had trapped her.

" _Let me go!_ "

He shushed her as he tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. Jovan flinched and tried her best to stay away from his touch. "Behave, dearest. You don't want me to take you home right now, do you?"

Jovan growled. "You gave me one last night so let me have it! You can have all of me tomorrow."

"I know that," he whispered as he inched his face closer to her ear, his hot breath fanning her ear. Jovan shuddered as she felt her insides coil. She tried to push him off once more, but he only pushed her back harder. She gasped as air escaped her lungs from the impact of her back hitting the cushioned wall. She felt Rémi pull away the fabric of her cloak and the high collar of her blouse to expose the skin of her neck.

"But I just missed you so damn much."

"I'm going to scream," Jovan threatened.

"Go ahead. I just hope you can carry the guilt on your shoulders when the Populaire falls to its ruin."

A silent cry left Jovan's parted lips just as she felt his mouth descend on the crook of her neck. Wet lips eagerly sucked on her skin as Jovan fell limp, the familiar coldness of fear paralyzing her. She was sixteen and back home again, experiencing the horror once more, and she could no longer hold in her tears as Rémi's lips moved on her skin.

When he was done, Jovan could not stop herself from shaking. But then as Rémi began to back away, something in her head dropped a veil of red over her vision and Jovan brought her knee up before he could sit down.

The hit was clumsy and ill-timed, and it didn't hit her uncle where she wanted him to hurt. Rémi merely chuckled at her attempt as he collapsed back into his seat, clutching his knee where Jovan had hit him. Her hand quickly went up to her neck where he had touched her, and disgust shot through her when she touched the surface of her skin, wet with his saliva.

She furiously wiped her trembling hand on her skirt. "Wh―"

"One night. But I don't want anyone touching you," Rémi smugly replied.

Jovan snarled. His envy was horribly misplaced ― damn it, everything was ― because he was being jealous of a non-existent lover; no one was going to see the mark he had left on her.

But Rémi didn't need to know that, and perhaps the idea of her having a lover driving her uncle to jealousy was not such a bad notion to Jovan.

"Tomorrow. Nine in the morning. Until then, Nathalie," he then reminded her one last time.


	33. King And Rook

Author's Note: Yes, people ― I'm still alive! This girl just finished her last year in high school and will be heading for college next in August! Three months should be more than enough for me to _hopefully_ finish writing all the chapters in advance though. Also, I finally bought a copy of Gaston Leroux's book! Yay for me. For all of you though, thank you so much for bearing through the long wait! In return, here's one of the longer chapters I've written for this fic. Don't forget to drop a review!

* * *

( _thirty-three_ )

 **KING AND ROOK**

* * *

Her breathing was erratic as she opened the door to the coach and staggered out. She had the mind to pull her hood back up before she fully exited the coach. They hadn't moved from their spot before the opera house, and Jovan immediately rushed back to the steps of the Opéra Populaire, back into safe territory. Urging her trembling legs forward, she didn't dare to look back as she began climbing the steps.

The sound of the coach rolling away soon reached her ears, granting her a small semblance of relief. But it wasn't enough.

The doorman was understandably startled when Jovan stumbled back into the grand foyer. But she couldn't care less about his stunned reaction when all that mattered to her at the moment was the rising bile in her stomach. Her nausea threatened to overwhelm her. Her stomach heaved. She retched, but nothing came out, nothing could when she had not eaten anything since she woke up.

"Mademoiselle, are you alright?" It was the doorman, with a stupid question nevertheless.

Jovan gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head. But of course the doorman didn't notice it, not when she still had her hood covering her head. Straightening up, Jovan then broke into a run deeper into the opera house, wondering if she had gone and done the right thing after everything that had just transpired. Would it be worth it? She didn't have the answer right now ― all she had were her tears.

No, she wasn't alright. She was the farthest thing from it.

* * *

He had his suspicions, but it was so, _so_ much worse than he had thought.

Erik had listened that night before the new year as Jovan finally unraveled her past for him to see as plain as day. He had listened as, moments away from midnight, he finally learned of the tragedy that she hid behind her own mask, a mask that was not made of porcelain but of hardened skin, a brusque demeanor, and a volatile temper.

It made so much sense now, why she carried so much anger in her heart and why it manifested in terrible ways during her stay at the opera house. The punch with the stagehand, the outbursts with Elea, her refusal to be scared away by the Phantom himself, her recklessness... All the repressed fear, loathing, and rage after all those living in silence and under constant threat and danger...

But the horror of that realization was not to be found just in itself, but also in the understanding that Erik knew very well what it was like to be in her place. He empathized with her. He knew so well of the role of the victim, having been one when he was much younger. He was too familiar with the echoes of an abused past, the rage that was born from it and the constant shadow of fear. They were all horrible burdens on a person, weight that even Erik himself still had trouble carrying at times, and to know that Jovan had suffered just as he did...

Erik could not remember the last time he felt such an insurmountable rage.

What wrong had she ever done to deserve such atrocities committed against her? She was only a child when her own uncle began to give her unwanted and unsavory attention. She was the daughter of gifted aristocrats. She had fearlessly loved a horribly disfigured sibling during his short, tragic life. It was simply unfathomable. How could anyone, let alone someone of her own blood, find it in their heart to mistreat and abuse her as if she were anything less than a human?

He thought he had seen it all, the extent of how wicked humanity could be. But time had only passed to prove him severely wrong. No, Erik had thought. Man's depravity truly knew no bounds.

Rémi Sauveterre was living proof of that.

Erik had committed many atrocities in his life, but rape had never been and will never be one of them. He was indeed a mere man and had his own carnal needs, but he would never stoop so low as to force his self on someone just to satisfy his lust. He may lack adequate control when it came to his temper, but he prided himself on his abundance of self-control when it came to other matters such as this one. He was so much more than hunger inside him. Most of all, he knew that women were much more than mere objects of desire to be used and then discarded afterwards ― they were human, just like he was.

If Erik could recognize that, how come Jovan's own uncle couldn't?

These were all things that Erik had mulled over after he had dropped Jovan back at her dormitory and he had returned to his home on New Year's Eve. He had to take the time to completely and carefully process all that Jovan had revealed to him, until his own nausea almost engulfed him from the sheer horror of it all. He took his time until he fully comprehended her past and her trauma, and then the reason why she was hiding, and, finally, her anger and her fears.

Her fears then became his own.

It was then that Erik's horror reached new heights. Rémi Sauveterre was now the Opéra Populaire's new patron, a brand new nightmare for Jovan. He grew scared when the thought of Jovan being taken away by her uncle once more invaded his head. It filled him to the core with disgust and scorching anger. Erik had much hate to spare and he directed all that he had then at the man that had tormented Jovan for so long and so much. Damn the Vicomte ― both of them, Sauveterre and Collet ― for having to intrude upon the opera house that had become a safe haven for Jovan. Damn them along with the manager for daring to disturb the peace in _his_ opera house.

Which was why, come the morning after New Year, he had resolved to do everything he could in his power to keep Jovan safe. He had then gone to the dormitories to talk to Jovan, only to arrive just in time to see the redhead leaving her shared room. Instead of confronting her then, he decided to stalk her through his passageways until she reached her destination, one that rather piqued Erik's curiosity. Jovan had gone to the manager's office that morning and had left herself in to wait for Monsieur Lefévre's arrival.

Erik then listened as Jovan had gone on to talk with the manager when he arrived. He listened as Lefévre had called her 'Comtesse' ― wait, what?

So, Jovan was truly the Comtesse Sauveterre. It had taken Erik a full moment before his mind fully processed the new revelation. Sure, he always had a feeling that Jovan was part of the nobility, something that was only proven when he learned the title of her uncle during the Masquerade announcement, but a comtesse? How was that even possible? Weren't men the only ones who were eligible to inherit titles? Unless Jovan was married... _No_. It just seemed unlikely and it sounded very _wrong_ to Erik. He would just have to get the answer from Jovan herself.

But that wasn't the only startling thing that he had picked up from her conversation with Lefévre. Aside from how Rémi came to be the Populaire's new patron without the manager knowing beforehand, what had disconcerted Erik more was Jovan's decision to resign. Leave.

Leave? And go where?

Erik shortly received his answer when he then went to confront Jovan in her dormitory while she was packing up her belongings. And just when he thought that she couldn't grow anymore reckless, she decided that the best course of action was to return to the territory of her enemy, her uncle, her rapist. All because she didn't want the Opéra Populaire to suffer in her place.

But damn the opera house, Erik had thought then. Damn them all. How could this girl even think of doing such a thing when Erik himself would never, in a million lifetimes, go the same route she was going to take?

But then he realized that there was a stark difference between the two of them, one that stuck out like a beacon of light among the dark sea of their many shared similarities. Erik was selfish, something he could admit that on any day freely without even any measure of guilt, while Jovan was not selfish _enough_.

Still, there had to be other ways to go about the problem. Erik was sure that going to Rémi was just about the worst way to solve things, but Jovan just wouldn't listen. Good God, she really was just as stubborn as him, and it wasn't even funny at that point. She had even refused _his help_ , something that he very rarely offered. It wasn't the last straw for him although Jovan's refusal sure didn't help to keep his temper in check and the sharp words from escaping his lips.

Erik would gladly help Jovan at the risk of everything else, even his home, but how could he help someone who didn't even want to help herself first?

It went downhill after that. Many biting words were exchanged, though there were more coming from his part, until Jovan became the first to snap.

They really didn't make for a pretty pair when they were both angry. He had even used her title to mock her as he went to leave. Erik was rarely one to regret his words and actions, but his last words to her were something that he started to feel deep remorse for as the day deepened into night.

Still, something prevented him from returning to the dormitories for the rest of the day. His wounded pride, perhaps? He just couldn't find it himself to see Jovan so soon after their row. As a result, Erik had resorted to sulking for the rest of the day. Everything that had transpired beginning the previous night finally began to take its toll on him, but he could only imagine how much worse it had to be for Jovan. He didn't want to move from where he sat, every bone in his body feeling as if they were made of lead. He felt so heavy. He didn't even want his music to distract him, not when it would surely keep Jovan out of his thoughts, and the idea didn't really appeal to him, he realized, because who else did Jovan have to worry about her? Nobody, Erik reckoned. Elea was worlds away while Antoinette had her own daughter and Christine to worry about, along with the choreography for the next opera.

It was by some miracle, however, that he finally found the strength to return to Jovan some time before dinner. He had to make sure, at least, that she was eating her meals, knowing how Jovan was prone to skipping them whether with or without proper reason.

Erik didn't know what to think or how to feel when it was Antoinette that he saw in the dormitory instead. She was all alone and she had been checking the drawers of Jovan's nightstand. The redhead was nowhere in sight.

It was easy to pull out a confession from the ballet headmistress after Erik had stepped through the two-way mirror. Jovan's uncle had arrived, and her decided course of action had been to meet his demand to see her.

Erik could not remember the last time he felt such a vile mixture of fear, anger, and dismay. Was she truly _that_ reckless? But then Antoinette had calmed him, and that was when he noticed that all of Jovan's possessions were still in her room, save for her cloak.

What in God's name _ever_ went on inside that girl's head?

His first instinct had been to climb to the rooftop. He obeyed it, and found himself surprised when he saw a black coach parked right in front of the opera house. Antoinette had described what the Vicomte Sauveterre's coach looked like, and her description had matched the coach standing still before the steps of the Opéra Populaire.

At the sight of it, Erik could feel the blood in his veins slowly turn to ice as time trickled by, every agonizing minute that passed leaving him continuously fighting the growing urge to rush downstairs and throw open the door of the coach and see for himself what was going on inside. No, he'd do his best to simply stay in place and spectate, even if it hurt him to do so. Only God knew what was going on inside the coach but Erik just couldn't afford to be reckless yet, not when he didn't know all the details of Jovan's plan yet.

At least everything was quiet, Erik attempted to comfort himself after the sun had vanished from sight in the distant horizon.

He saw Jovan finally exit the coach several moments later. A sharp exhale left him as he took note of how she almost stumbled on her way out as she hurriedly pulled the hood of her cloak back up. His heart began to race faster as she made her back up the steps leading the opera house, his sharp eyes not missing how unsteady her feet actually were as she entered the Opéra Populaire.

Erik didn't even think as he swiftly took his leave of the roof and found the passageway that would grant him the quickest way to Jovan's dormitory. He fled through the dark, as fast as his long, agile legs would take him, until he finally found himself in front of a dark curtain that shielded a two-way mirror. Deftly unlocking the entrance's mechanism, Erik slipped through the ajar mirror and was instantly greeted with the sight of Jovan perched on the edge of her bed, all alone and with her back turned to him.

Her figure was as still as statue. Her shoulders were stiff and she was silent as death as Erik made his way to her, their earlier fight long forgotten at the back of his mind. He had expected to see her crying, perhaps her body shaking with sobs even, but not this heavy silence that now filled the room. It had always worried him when Jovan's reactions were muted, when her lips were sealed and she gave little to no indications of how she felt or what turmoil was presently unfolding in her head, and this instance was no different as Erik found himself holding his breath while his curiosity raged to know what happened in the coach.

When he finally came to a stop on the spot right in front of her, his rage immediately flamed back to life at the very first thing that he noticed.

There was the smallest stream of blood on the left side of Jovan's face, blooming from a small tear on the skin of her cheek. The blood had began to dry, yet the redhead's face was still streaked wet, and only then did Erik's mind register that Jovan was indeed crying after all. His eyes left the cut to lock with her gaze, and the fury that gleamed in them left him stunned in their searing intensity.

Jovan was so very still as hot, angry tears continued to stream down her face. At her sides, her hands were balled into fists digging into the mattress of her bed, steadying her. The sight of her at the moment unnerved Erik.

"Jovan―" Erik began before he was sternly cut off.

"He wants me to come back," Jovan remarked, her tone quiet but severe.

A muscle in Erik's jaw tightened at her words. "You can't do that."

"And I won't."

Erik blinked in disbelief the moment her reply reached his ears. Did she truly say... Were his ears simply betraying him? But one look into Jovan's eyes and Erik saw nothing but steel resolve in their green hues. In her stare, he saw the Jovan that he truly knew ― not the girl from years ago that she had called a coward, but the woman that she had become, the woman who had refused to back down when she first met the feared Opera Ghost in the darkest of hallways.

He felt a surge of pride when he repeated her words inside his own head. His eyes didn't leave Jovan as he slowly went down on one knee. Erik was about to remove his right glove when he noticed the way Jovan warily eyed his movements. He immediately stopped and dropped his voice into a low, comforting whisper as the pieces began to fall into place.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Jovan."

Jovan gave a slow, single nod of her head. "I know."

It was only after hearing her response did Erik proceed to carefully remove his glove. Jovan's eyes remained on his right hand as he fetched a handkerchief from the pocket of his coat and used it to gently dab at her wounded cheek. She flinched at the first contact, something Erik recognized as a natural, instinctive response, before Jovan finally went still again, still enough for Erik to gently wipe away what he could of the blood and tears on her face.

He began to inspect the small cut once the blood was gone. It had obviously come from a slap from a hand that had a ring on it. How typical, Erik thought, as he felt his temper begin to rise once more at the image that came to his mind ― a monster laying his cruel hands on Jovan, one who had the same blood running in his veins as she did, no less.

"He did this," Erik grated out through clenched teeth before his eyes were drawn to the collar of Jovan's blouse. The fabric wasn't sitting snug against her skin as it should be. Instead, it had been obviously and carelessly pulled away from her neck, and a more furtive peek beneath the fabric showed the color red blooming on the skin of Jovan's neck.

Erik didn't realize that he had given a sharp exhale until Jovan reacted by pulling back the collar of her blouse.

"Don't start with me, Erik," she said as she rose to her feet. "If you're going to tell me that I should have fought back, just don't."

"I wasn't going to," Erik answered quietly, straightening up as he watched Jovan take off her cloak. No, he wasn't about to scold Jovan when he himself knew how paralyzing fear could be. How many times had he stood frozen to his spot, unable to fight back, in fear of the whip or the fists of his master when he was a boy? How many times had he surrendered in fright to the darkness of his own room when his mother deprived him even the smallest of candles, long before he learned to embrace the dark?

"You're not a coward, Jovan," the words then slip out of Erik's lips before he could stop them. Before him, Jovan dropped her cloak on her bed, her back turned to him. He watched the rise and fall of her shoulders and she drew in a deep breathe before turning to face him, all while he processed his own words and where they would eventually lead to.

"I'm sorry," Erik then finished as Jovan met his gaze. He was still very much not a fan of apologizing, but what he was was a man of his word. And he had told himself a long time ago that apologizing was just one of the things he was willing to learn for Jovan. And at the moment, he found himself not regretting that decision, not when after a long moment, the smallest of smiles finally graced the redhead's lips.

"Thank you, Erik."

Erik responded with a nod of his head, trying not to let all of his attention be stolen by the sudden flutter in his chest, before he resumed his usual cool and authoritative tone.

"So. What are you going to do next?"

* * *

 _Tomorrow. Nine in the morning._

It took every ounce of courage she had in her bones for Jovan to keep up the present facade she had. Standing at the very last steps of the Opéra Populaire, she presently wore a fresh pair of clothes, consisting of another high-collared blouse which she coupled with her best pair of slacks. The entirety of her outfit was hidden by the cloak she wore though, lest her unusual choice of attire drew unwanted attention to herself. It was the best set of clothes that she could bring herself to wear given the occasion though, when she was about to keep her word that she had given to her uncle ― to meet him at the time and place he had given her.

She had been standing at the same spot for half an hour now, but all that waiting finally bore fruit when a familiar black coach rolled into her line of sight. Jovan felt her stomach drop at the sight of it, the memory of last night instantly assaulting her focus and threatening to break her composure, but she did her best to push away the thought back into the deepest chambers of her mind. She sucked in several lungfuls of air to steady herself until the coach finally came to a stop right in front of her, and even then Jovan's heart continued to hammer painfully in her chest. It didn't stop until the coachman opened the door before her and it didn't stop until Jovan climbed inside the dark, cushioned space of the coach.

But the face that greeted her inside was the last person Jovan expected see.

"My, my," Laurine crooned. "I didn't know that trousers were the latest trend now."

Jovan's chest tightened upon seeing the face of Rémi's wife. Before she could stop herself, her vision clouded with red and she raised her hand.

Before it could make contact with Laurine's cheek however, Jovan's hand was stopped midair by the sudden grip of slender fingers wrapping around her wrist. Vaguely, Jovan's mind registered the coach rolling into motion.

"Don't forget your manners, young lady. That's no way to greet your aunt," Laurine remarked as she pulled Jovan's hand down while refusing to let go of her.

Jovan did her best to pull back her arm, but she found herself unable to put all her strength into it when she was still reeling from the shock of seeing Laurine. The blonde's grip on her was like a vise as well, so when Jovan failed to reclaim her hand, she redirected her anger into the next words she spat at Laurine.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

"I came to fetch you, of course," was Laurine's infuriatingly vague and cool answer.

"Where is Rémi?" Jovan said irritably.

"He's busy dealing with _your_ company."

" _Let me go._ "

"I doubt Rémi will appreciate that now, don't you think? Also, I can't help but notice the distinct lack of baggage. Do you simply plan on buying a whole new wardrobe?"

Jovan's head began to spin at the nonsense that Laurine seemed to be spewing. Coupled with her confusion and heavy unease, Jovan's temper spiked from the frustration of not knowing what Rémi had in store for her that he even sent his wife of all people to fetch her. Whatever game this was, Jovan was not having any of it.

"No, Laurine," she answered acidly, gritting her teeth. "I'm not coming home."

"Oh? Good."

Jovan gave a stiff nod of her head. " _Good._ You can deliver that news to your husband then and let me go now," she replied, eyes glancing to her aunt's tight grip.

However, Laurine only tapered her eyes at the redhead and kept her fingers around Jovan's wrist. "I don't think so, Nathalie."

 _Damn this!_ Jovan was unable to prevent her emotions from taking control of her features, and face contorted into an expression of unabashed chagrin. How could she not when this wasn't the plan? In fact, the plan was already ruined the moment she saw Laurine instead of her uncle.

This wasn't the plan.

"Go ahead then. Throw every name that you can think of. Throw them all at me. I don't have to explain myself to you of all people, you who chose to stay blind even when the truth was glaring right in front of her. Go on. Hit me, curse me, throw me into the streets ― _do it_. Because you're never going to get another chance to do so."

The laugh that rolled out of Laurine's painted lips in response made Jovan flinch. The woman had the audacity to actually sound _amused_ by Jovan's words, and it prompted her to once more try and free her hand from Laurine's grasp. Her efforts were fruitless.

"You're such a pretty little thing, aren't you?" Laurine's next words made Jovan stiffen as the blonde regarded her with an unreadable glint in her blue eyes. "At first, I thought that that must have been the reason why you caught his eye. Then I saw your mother."

Jovan fell limp in Laurine's grip at her next words. She felt her breath catch in her throat.

"You leave my mother out of this."

But Laurine played deaf to Jovan's words. "I never saw her in person now, no. I only saw her in that photograph that Rémi kept in one of the drawers of his desk. That's when I finally understood, after all those years. Those green eyes, those red locks... He saw your mother in you."

Jovan could not decipher what the sudden stab in her chest meant. It left her lungs empty of air for the briefest of moments as she slowly, cautiously let her mind drink in the words that left Laurine's lips. Disbelief pricked at her; how could it not when all of this felt too... _fair_ to be real? The words, the realization, after all those years...

Laurine's fingers finally loosen around Jovan's wrist before they altogether relinquished their hold. "And when he couldn't have her, he tried to have you instead."

"You lie," Jovan weakly accused her, still quite unable to believe what was happening.

"I don't, Nathalie." Her tone suddenly soft, Laurine didn't make a move to stop Jovan this time when the redhead pulled her hand back. She cradled it against her chest, her fingers running over the reddening skin where Laurine had seized her, while Jovan could only stare at her aunt in shock. She wasn't even sure if the woman before her was her aunt, not when Laurine presently had the most genuine expression of concern on her face that Jovan had ever seen.

"I don't lie. I see the truth for what it is now," Laurine reassured her.

A rising tide of anger swelled within Jovan as her lower lip began to tremble. "Now? What about years ago?"

"Nathalie, I'm sorry―"

"Oh, _bullshit_ , Laurine," Jovan spat venomously, her anger reaching its crescendo. "Whatever this is, stop it. God knows you'd do anything for your husband, even kiss the ground that his feet walk upon if he ever asked it of you. I should know ― I watched you as you chose to be blinded by his words and promises even when you saw him, with your own two eyes, forcing himself on me. I watched as you refused to believe that the man you adored with every fiber of your being was, in truth, every bit of the snake I tried telling you that he was; and all because you could not accept that you were _wrong_. Wrong after every single attempt to justify his actions, after every attempt to find wrong in me instead of him, after every denial your mind could think of. You'd always known, deep in your heart if even have one, that you were wrong about Rémi. And now here you are, telling me that you can finally _see_. But why should I believe you? _How_ can I believe you to be telling the truth now when all you've done in the past is bury it?"

Her breathing escaped in short, heavy gasps after her tirade, ragged with the effort of pouring out years' worth of anger and misery. Jovan recalled having wanting to do this for as long as she could remember, and now that it was done, a surge of satisfaction shot through her veins. She couldn't help it, not when her suffering could have been significantly lessened by the woman before her if she so chose to help her back then. But Laurine didn't, and it brought Jovan a morbid sense of triumph to finally be able to slap her back, even if it was just through her words.

"But, Nathalie, it's not too late," was Laurine's timid reply after the passing of a long moment, sounding so hopeful that Jovan felt her heart clench in sympathy for the shortest of seconds. Even her usually smart blue eyes glinted with something else entirely, something that looked like regret.

"Is it not? You tell me, Laurine," Jovan countered evenly, feeling her rage cool down into a white heat that left her more able to breathe easier.

"Alright then," Laurine answered, her tone suddenly gaining an edge to it. "I'll prove it. Yes, I might have seen you on the eve of the Bal Masqué, but not a single word of our encounter slipped from my lips to Rémi's ears."

"Then how did he come to know that I was staying at the opera house?"

"He refused to disclose how to me. But I do have a feeling that he spotted you with his own two eyes."

But Jovan was not to be swayed yet. She arched a brow. "Try harder."

Chagrin flashed through Laurine's fair features for a split-second, but Jovan had a feeling that the vexation wasn't aimed at her. Of course, she couldn't be sure though and she would just rather not get so confident around Laurine yet. She watched with a calculating stare as the blonde's light eyes darted back and forth as she considered something behind her fleeting gaze.

She licked her lips before she spoke. "It'd be a lie to say that I'm doing this purely out of the kindness of my heart or the guilt on my shoulders ― take your pick. But in truth, I have bad blood to settle between my husband and I."

"You and Rémi?" Jovan inquired sharply. Just when she thought that she could let go of the disbelief curled up in her chest...

Laurine gave a bat of long lashes and just like that, her mask of cool indifference slipped back into place, back to the Laurine that Jovan was more used to ― poised, honey-tongued, and coy to match her soft curls of gold and eyes of crystal blue. "Yes, me and him. It had something to do with me being with child several months after you... did some soul-searching. And like the loving, doting husband that he was, he reacted with one shove too hard. But sometimes, that's all it really takes."

This new piece of information took its time sinking its teeth onto Jovan's trail of thought. Laurine had been with child. _Had_. Jovan could only stare at the woman opposite her and was unable to help the smallest amount of admiration stick itself to that brilliant and perfect mask of insouciance that Laurine had managed to keep on while divulging the loss of the child she had been carrying, a truth that must have been so heavy to bear for a woman who had once become so overcome with grief with the news of her barrenness that she tried to jump to her death.

Jovan blinked owlishly, not quite sure how to take in the information. Fortunately, she felt no amount of satisfaction at the news, lest she start questioning just how much of a conscience she truly had, but perhaps it was just too shocking to hear that Rémi had it in himself to hurt his own wife and consequently his unborn child...

Ah. But why was she even wondering about it? She shouldn't have been surprised, not after all the horrors he'd done to her first.

"You miscarried," Jovan's words came in a low whisper. "I... I'm sorry."

"Don't, darling." Laurine gave a small, half-hearted scoff. "Not unless you mean it. I don't want your pity, after all. I want your help."

"My help," the redhead echoed. "And how exactly do you want my help?"

"In any way possible," Laurine answered with a thin, humorless curve of her petal lips, her voice velvet but cool and piercing as ice. "The company, the estate. Those might be under your name but Rémi is the one truly in reign over them. Take those back. Everything. Everything that he took from you, take it all back and so much more. Let him know how it feels to be broken beneath the wheel, to be carved out hollow and empty, to be left like scraps for the dogs."

The quiet intensity that suffused each word left Jovan feeling out of her depth. She wanted to start a war, but how did one even start? How exactly was she supposed to make her brute of an uncle feel as she did during all those times that he had violated her? Had her pinned down and crushed beneath his weight and unable to make a single sound? During that hollowing moment when Laurine learned that she had lost the child in her womb because of him? How do you make a man who has known nothing but power all his life and who had done everything to claim it every chance he got feel even less than the mud beneath his boots? How did one make the predator feel like the prey?

Jovan found the answer staring back at her not a moment later. Staring at her menacingly but with perfect clarity.

Her eyes found Laurine's once more, and to see the same fire in her eyes mirrored in her aunt's blue ones was all Jovan needed to give her word.

"I will, then. I'll do just that," she replied unflinchingly.

Jovan watched as Laurine's flawless mask cracked in the slightest for her to give Jovan a grateful smile.

The blonde then rapped against the ceiling of the coach three times.

"Back to the Opéra Populaire then."

"But what will Rémi say when you return to him empty-handed?" Jovan asked more out of curiosity than actual concern when the last thing she wanted was to be in the ride home along with Laurine. Still, it worried her how her uncle might react when he learned that his wife went against his orders.

"Nothing worse than what you've heard before, I'm sure."

Jovan was unable to help the snort that escaped her. In the midst of it all, she felt a pang of sadness at the thought of what could have been. Had fate been much kinder, Jovan wondered how well she would have gotten along with her aunt.

It wasn't long before the coach rolled into the shadow of the towering Opéra Populaire. Jovan helped herself out and turned on her heel to take one last look at her new unexpected ally.

Laurine met her eyes with a firm stare. "You need to plan your return to Paris before anything else. Remember, you went away to travel the world. Quite the wayward child, but then you Sauveterres never stuck by the rules anyway."

Jovan gave a nod. "I'll think of something."

"Oh, I'm sure you will."

Jovan then pushed the door to the coach close, and the last glimpse she caught of Laurine was through the small window, a ghost of a smile on her painted lips.


End file.
